


Death Be Not Denied

by issaro



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Hobbit Big Bang 2016, M/M, Minor Violence, Personification of Death, The Hobbit Big Bang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-19
Updated: 2016-05-19
Packaged: 2018-06-09 07:47:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6896221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/issaro/pseuds/issaro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Death has an appointment to keep in the Shire, but nothing involving a Wizard is ever straight forward. Thorin isn’t sure why this should even surprise him.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>"You wish me to protect someone in some way you can't explain, on the promise that I will know when I'm needed and my debt is repaid?" </i>
</p><p>
  <i>"Exactly." The Wizard smiled enigmatically.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Appointment in the Shire

**Author's Note:**

> This story contains an incidental mention of suicide. In order to pass on the Duties of the Office of Death, the current office holder must choose to die. There are no detailed discussions or descriptions of suicide in this story.

The great battle ram sunk up to his belly in thick vegetation as he stepped down onto the green grass covering the small hillock appearing as a wooly ship afloat on green seas. The pale rider gave the long grass a disgruntled look as Murdêl carefully wound his way down the side of the hill. The aggressive abundance of greenery in the Shire seemed overdone in his estimation - as if the Shire was mocking the rest of Middle Earth by being even more verdant than rumoured. The grass finally gave way to a well manicured lawn as a round door came into view.

Death glanced at the stones on his wrist cuff and nodded in satisfaction. The little white star in the center of the sapphire had migrated across the face of the gem to clearly point in the direction of the small door and the large cat's eye was nearly fully dilated. It was almost time and definitely the place.

The battle ram trotted to a halt just beside the path and allowed Death to slide off his back. He affectionately patted its shoulder, speaking as he drew the hood of his cloak up to obscure his face. "We're a bit early, my friend. Why don't you take advantage of the greenery while I collect our charge?"

Murdêl blew out a heavy breath, thick with the scent of hay and seed, and then trotted off towards the shade of a large oak tree perched off center, atop the hill.

Death watched him go for a minute before he turned back to the round door. Taking the knob in hand, he pushed his way into the front hall. No door could bar him - not that this one had even been secured in the first place, Death noted with a shake of his head. Death had had many occasions to visit the Shire but he still marvelled at the level of security they presumed.

The star on his wrist pointed towards what appeared to be a front sitting room off to his right. He entered quietly to find his charge slumped in an overly small arm chair, clothes rumpled and long white hair partially obscuring his face. There were worse ways to pass than in one’s sleep, he knew all too well. He drew close and extended one gloved hand. 

Before he could connect however, an unexpectedly large hand shot from the confines of the grey robes and fastened tightly around his wrist. "Stay your hand but a moment, Death," a tired voice asked.

For a moment, he stood frozen by the strength of the old Man's grip before instinct kicked in and he wrenched it away. Stepping back out of immediate reach, Death drew his sword from the scabbard across his back. "I spare no one," he rebuked, the weight of his angry words straining the air around them. 

"Nor do I ask it of you, Thorin.” The Man replied in a vexed tone that sounded worn thin. “I ask only a moment." Death was, as a rule, not in the business of treating with mortals but the method of address caught him off guard. It had been nearly a century since anyone in Middle Earth had called Death by name. 

"Who are you, to know that name?" His voice rumbling from the deep confines of his shadowed hood.

"You know me, Thorin, though perhaps it has been too long since we last spoke." The figure rose from his careless sprawl to reveal himself to be not a Hobbit or a Man but a Wizard, tall and thin, and in possession of a beard half as long as he was tall.

"Tharkûn?" Death asked startled. Indeed it had been more years than he could readily count since he'd last seen the Grey Wanderer. It was odd to think that a Maia would have need of his services, but he supposed that in the end he too was mortal.

"Will you not put off your hood and let us speak as friends?"

Death lowered his sword slowly but did not re-sheath it. With a free hand, he pushed back the hood of his cloak, dispelling the magics that allowed him to pass unremarked upon through the mortal world, recognizable to only the most keen eyed of the living. Without the magics, he was just a Dwarf, slightly past his prime with crows feet around his eyes and silver threaded through his hair. Only his shortened beard and relative lack of jewelry would set him apart from any other of his kin.

"And is that what we are, Wizard?” Thorin asked cautiously. “Friends?”

Tharkûn huffed an annoyed breath. "I had thought so, yes, all things considered but perhaps I was too hasty."

At the less than subtle reminder of his history with the Wizard, Thorin guiltily resheathed his sword and pushed the edges of his cloak back over his shoulders.

"Will you grant us a few moments more?" Tharkûn asked with a pointed glance at Thorin’s hand.

The ring allowed him the power to freeze time, a useful tool in navigating chaotic scenes safely. He’d even on occasion used it to speak with a frightened client to ease their passage. Never, however, had anyone specifically asked him to use his ring to grant them additional time. Suspiciously, Thorin twisted the heavy silver ring on his finger with a sharp turn to the right. The clock on the mantel stopped ticking; its hands frozen in place.

"All things considered? By which you mean the favor you have neither let me forget nor let me repay,” he grunted. “And now it appears to be too late. Even I do not have the power to ignore the Weaver's pattern, Wizard."

"Perhaps not and yet..." Tharkûn murmured with a small private smile. He waved Thorin's protestations off before he could further voice them. "You are correct in one thing at least. I have finally found a way for you to repay my favor, Thorin Deathless, though not in the way you may imagine.”

A small spark of hope kindled in Thorin’s chest. He had been living under his debt to the Wizard for longer than he cared to remember. He’d long since despaired of ever finding a means of rebalancing the scales.

The Wizard continued on but his shrewd gaze implied that he knew very well what Thorin was thinking. “I do not ask you to stay your hand, Death. My time has come because it serves my purposes to go, but there is one I leave behind in need of a protector."

Thorin’s thoughts ground to a halt. A protector? It wasn’t an entirely unheard of request; Dwarves were respected as formidable warriors. But to ask this of him, as if there were no easier options, was odd beyond the telling. It was possible to use a sword as dinner knife, but only a fool would hire a swordsmith when a blacksmith would do.

Repay his debt? Nothing with the Wizard was ever so straightforward. Thorin was not sure why this should even surprise him. "I would be a poor guard. You know I have duties I cannot ignore."

"Yes, yes, quite so, but you need not be here specifically to serve your purpose. The Shire is its own sort of protection. I only ask for you to keep an eye on him and, if needed, intercede on his behalf."

"Intercede how?" Thorin asked, his obvious suspicion coloring his tone.

"However needed.”Tharkûn replied with careless shift of his shoulders. “You shall know when the time has come, I am sure." 

Thorin rubbed the arch of his brow. Once, long ago, Tharkûn had been a regular visitor to his Grandfather’s court, showing up every spring on the heels of the first thaw. The burden of attending the Wizard had fallen primarily to Thorin’s father, but Thorin had sat in enough council meetings before his passing to well remember the unique pleasure of treating with a Wizard. 

"You wish me to protect someone in some way you can't explain, on the promise that I will know when I'm needed,” he spoke just to ensure he had the whole of it.

The Wizard smiled enigmatically.

“And then my debt is repaid?"

"Exactly."

Thorin took a calming breath and decided to humour the Wizard for a moment more. There was no time lost in listening to the Wizard’s proposal and it was perhaps the last and only chance for him to repay his debt. "And who exactly are you asking me to protect?"

"Didn't I mention?” Tharkûn spoke as if to himself. “No, I suppose I hadn't, at that." He strode past Thorin and out into the main hallway without further explanation, apparently confident that Thorin would follow. Thorin did so but ensured his grumbled comments on the highhandedness of certain people were just loud enough for the Wizard to overhear them. 

The hall Tharkûn lead him down was broken up at regular intervals by rounded doorways, some with doors and some just simple archways. From one of these many openings, a Hobbit had been caught frozen in time; emerging into the hall with one foot firmly behind and one just coming to rest over the threshold. In his hand he clutched a heavy mug with frozen curls of steam rising from it. 

"A Hobbit?" Thorin asked with surprise. Not that it was odd to see a halfling in the Shire, but one that would need Thorin’s protection was. Thorin somehow couldn’t imagine a mob of Hobbits armed with farm implements marching on this well appointed home beneath the hill.

Tharkûn nodded sagely. "As you see."

"What sort of trouble could a Hobbit be in that would warrant the protection of Death himself?"

In reply, Tharkûn only looked troubled. "I do not know, my friend. And that is why I arranged to meet you here and why I must leave. Foul things are at play but from where I cannot seem to uncover. There are those in the West that may help unravel the mystery."

Which made no sense to Thorin. “The Undying Lands are not some waystation to be entered and exited at will, Wizard. Once you pass that way you will not be able to return. How do you propose to solve this mystery if you are barred from Middle Earth?” he asked, but decided in the next moment that it hardly mattered what the Wizard planned. Regardless of his answer and how much Thorin would like to repay his debt, he could not help him. The duties of Death were not lightly put aside.

“No, I cannot do what you ask Tharkûn ,” Thorin demurred.

Tharkûn sighed. For all that the Grey Wizard gave off an air of agelessness, he seemed tired to Thorin. Tired in a way that had nothing to do with the time he’d spent on Middle Earth and everything to do with whatever mystery plagued him. 

“Have faith, Thorin. I would not leave this to you if I didn't believe that you were the right person for the task."

“No, Tharkûn," Thorin insisted. It was ludicrous to think that he had time for such a venture, let alone that he of all people should be given the responsibility for another’s life. “There are others who could more easily perform this duty.”

"This is my price, Thorin.” The Wizards tone brooked no further argument. “A favor owed for a favor granted."

Thorin ground his teeth in frustration. The Wizard had the right to demand this of him, no matter how much Thorin may protest and well he knew it. That he should use his leverage on what appeared to be such a small matter was all the more reason to look upon the opportunity with suspicion. Thorin floundered for a moment trying to marshall another argument and failing.

Tharkûn took his frustrated silence as acceptance and stepped back with a satisfied grin and a nod to Thorin. "And with that, I believe we are out of time," he said with a glance at Thorin's ring. 

The world suddenly reanimated as if released by the Wizards words - which of course wasn’t the case. The ring offered a finite amount of time but far be it from a Wizard to not take advantage of circumstances to further their own reputation. 

The Hobbit finished his aborted motion and stepped into the hallway, straight into the Wizard who now stood in his path. He startled at Gandalf’s sudden appearance and nearly lost his mug. He desperately juggled the crockery, which was saved by the Wizard who snatched it from his slack fingers and deposited it on a nearby table. "Oh! Gandalf! I didn't see you there!"

"Quite alright, Bilbo. Do not concern yourself. I have simply come to say goodbye." 

"Goodbye?" the Hobbit asked with some confusion. “No, certainly not. You’re not well. Let’s get you back to the front parlor where there’s a nice warm fire. A cup of mother’s tea is just the thing to set you straight again.” Here the Hobbit placed a finger alongside his nose and gave the Wizard a conspiratorial smile. “The secret is to use dark red rose hips and a bit of honey. Don’t go sharing that with anyone, mind you.”

Tharkûn smiled down at the Hobbit. "I'm afraid even the esteemable Belladonna’s tea will not suffice in this instance, my friend. It is most certainly my time but, as promised, I have asked a friend to look after you."

For the first time, Bilbo’s eyes landed on Thorin. Under the weight of the Hobbit’s stare, Thorin keenly felt the loss of the protective cover of his cloak and hood. He so rarely went without these days that he suddenly felt strangely naked standing before the Hobbit as nothing more than the Dwarf he had once been. He suppressed the faint urge to shift on his feet beneath the Hobbit’s surprised gaze.

"A Dwarf?" Bilbo blinked in confusion.

Thorin bristled at the Hobbit's implied censure. "As you can see," he huffed through his teeth.

A deep blush of red stole across the Hobbit's cheeks. "I'm very sorry, Master Dwarf. I meant no disrespect. I’m merely surprised. When Gandalf said he had called a friend to meet him here, I assumed he meant one of the rangers or an Elf."

Thorin acknowledged the apology with a stiff nod. It was certainly well known that the Grey Wizard had close ties to both those peoples.

Gandalf raised his arm as if to lay his hand on Thorin’s shoulder but moved smoothly to a more expansive gesture under Thorin’s reproving look. "Thorin has agreed to look in on you from time to time. Ensure that you are safe," he announced with a beatific smile; as if Thorin was a Dwarfling to accept everything his eyes told him. 

The Hobbit appeared equally unswayed. "As I have said before Gandalf, I do not need anyone to look in on me. Really, I am no longer some adventurous tween," he ended with a huff of annoyance. 

"Of course, Bilbo. But one can never have too many friends," Tharkûn interjected smoothly. Their exchange had the feel of an old argument traveling deeply worn paths. And apparently Bilbo noted the futility of it as well because he just shook his head and refused to engage further. 

"As you say," he grumped.

Tharkûn smiled in triumph and refocused on Thorin. "Bilbo Baggins, may I introduce to you my good friend, Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, once King of the Longbeards. Better known to Middle Earth as Death."

Bilbo visibly startled at the introduction. Although whether it was the reference to his grandfather or his title, Thorin couldn’t say. Had the Wizard allowed him to introduce himself he would have claimed neither. He fought the urge to rub at his temple again and instead, inclined his head in a formal greeting. "At your service."

"Death? That’s a bit of an odd name to adopt." Bilbo smiled tentatively as if to soften the jest.

“More of a title, really,” Tharkûn corrected dryly with another innocent smile.

The Hobbit looked rapidly back and forth between the two of them as if searching for the source of the shared joke. Upon seeing none he spluttered out, "Surely, you jest, Gandalf. Death is not a dwar.... er, person."

Thorin's hackles rose at the narrowly adverted second slur. "I can assure you that I most certainly am."

The Hobbit shot him a singularly unimpressed look. "Now see here, Gandalf," he continued, ignoring Thorin entirely to focus on the Wizard. One long finger was raised to point imperiously as he prepared to launch into what Thorin could only assume would be a lengthy telling-off.

Tharkûn however had had enough of the conversation. "Bilbo Baggins, if I say Thorin is Death than Death he is!" The light in the hall dimmed as if a passing cloud bank had blotted out the sun. The moment however, was broken almost immediately as Tharkûn stumbled a few steps back and leaned heavily against a paneled wall. "And I would thank you to not argue about it," he commented in a more subdued tone.

The Hobbit looked immediately contrite. "Of course, Gandalf. I'm sorry. Can I get you anything? Why are we all standing in the hall and where did I put that blasted cup of tea?" The Hobbit fretted turning completely about once on his heel in search for the abandoned mug.

Tharkûn waved him off with a small smile. "No thank you, my friend. I believe it is simply my old bones reminding me that it is time for me to depart," he added with a pointed look towards Thorin.

Thorin was suddenly reminded of the reason he had journeyed here. He glanced guiltily at his silver cuff to see the cat’s eye had been engulfed completely in black; Tharkûn’s time on Middle Earth had indeed been fully spent. "My apologies," he said gruffly, stepping forward. "I did not mean for you to suffer." 

Gandalf merely shook his head. "No apologies needed, Thorin. It was good to see you again, even under these circumstances,” he said as he stumbled over to a chair, his energy quickly leaving him. Thorin nodded solemnly and reached out his hand to place it gently on the Wizard's shoulder. 

The Wizard turned his attention to the Hobbit, offering his final farewell. "Goodbye, my friend. Trust in Thorin. And trust in yourself." The last was addressed to the Hobbit but the Wizard’s eyes had come back to rest on Thorin with an odd sort of intensity.

Bilbo reached out with an open hand but startled back in shock as the Wizard collapsed into the chair. A strangled gasp escaped him as a deep blue glow suffused the form of the Wizard. It grew in strength until the Hobbit had to shield his eyes. Then it flickered out abruptly and Thorin was left with a softly glowing stone in the palm of his hand and no Wizard in sight.

"Is that...?" Bilbo stopped and started again, his wide eyes fixed on the grey stone in Thorin's palm. "What just happened here?" he asked in a terribly affronted voice. The slightest of trembles edged his words, giving away his true shock.

Thorin looked for a long moment at the stone in his palm. It was warmer and lighter than any ordinary stone that size had a right to be and the color seemed to flow across it in grey swirls of mist. It was both breathtakingly unique and entirely as expected.

"That is what happens when a Wizard dies," he offered with a melancholy twist to his tone. The other races of middle earth had the decency to pass with less fanfare but such was the way of Wizards, he supposed.

"But..."

Thorin glanced up at the Hobbit. He seemed suddenly pale and he swayed on his feet, his eyes riveted to the stone in Thorin's hand. Thorin carefully closed his fingers over the stone to hide it from view. As if released, the Hobbit mumbled a few nonsensical words and then fainted dead away at Thorin's feet.

Thorin just shook his head in exasperation. He pulled a thick felt cloth from his pocket and carefully wrapped the Wizard's soulstone within it before tucking it away. He then bent to heft Bilbo over one shoulder and move him to the overly-ticked couch back in the front parlor. Mindful of his head and feet, Thorin laid him out and then went in search of a bit of parchment and quill to pen a quick note.

He left the note and a small ruby sitting on the low table by the couch where the Hobbit would hopefully see it immediately upon waking and then let himself out. With a petulant twist of his hand, he locked the door solidly behind him.

Murdêl came trotting quickly down the side of the hill and Death was mounted again in short order. A glance at the cat’s eye showed very little time before his next appointment. The ram pulled strongly on the reins, turning them east and headed off at a smart clip. The small stone tucked next to his heart weighed heavily on his mind as Death headed off but he had other appointments to keep.


	2. Death Comes for Tea

Thorin had certainly not misled the Wizard when he had promised to look after the Hobbit. But as he had told the Wizard on the outset - the duties of Death were not easily set aside. With one thing and another, he'd managed to almost entirely forget his meeting with the Wizard and the Hobbit under the hill until he was quite rudely reminded many weeks later.

Although the learning curve had been steep, Thorin was actually very good at his job and more often than not, he arrived at his appointments with time to spare. This time, the stones had guided him to a busy side street in a merchant district of a northern city of Men and with some time left, Thorin noted, glancing down at the cat’s eye.

The street had been built wide enough to allow for two carts to pass in opposite directions but enterprising street vendors and Men stopping to make deliveries had narrowed the avenue to considerably less than that. As a result, the street rang with the competing cries of merchants hawking their wares and angry cart drivers frustrated in their forward progress. Through it all passed throngs of men and women and children out on business or mischief.

Between the buildings and the wagons, the merchants and the people, the oxen and the street dogs, everyone was pressed cheek to jowl except for Thorin. Murdêl stood alone and unremarked upon, a rock around which all other activity flowed. And from his back, Thorin gained just enough height to oversee it all.

Today his gaze was caught by a group of children; boys just on the cusp of young adulthood. One enterprising lad had distracted a vendor as a few of his friends pawed through a bushel of apples behind the the Man’s back. They had chosen their target poorly though because even as they made to pocket the fruit the vendor turned about and laid into them with broom and strident voice. The boys immediately scattered, vaulting over barrells and dodging grasping hands as nearby vendors joined the fray. 

One boy got tangled in a bit of awning and went tumbling into the crowded street. He missed the hooves of the closest horse but the grace of the Valar was not with him. The rearing animal spooked a nearby pony, which broke free from its traces and bolted, causing several carts to upend. In no time at all the scene was a mess of yelling Men and braying animals as carts and people and animals all became hopelessly - and fatally - entangled.

A bitter frown creased Thorin’s face. The cat’s eye was once again fully dilated and there was no question as to who he was here for. Gently he urged Murdêl forward, clearing a path through the crowd of onlookers and desperate Men. No one met his eye or seemed to notice him or the ram but everyone stepped from their path as if they had some sudden coincidental need to shift a pace to the left or right. Mortals rarely saw Death, unless he was there specifically for them, but they always seemed to know when he was near.

Two wagons had come to rest in the center of the street in a mess of broken spars and boards jutting in every direction, heedless of the fragile human flesh that occupied that same space. Thorin dismounted in the center of the commotion and crouched low to look through the tangled debris.

A human man lay crushed beneath what was once the wheel of a wagon, eyes dulled in death. Thorin passed him by; he was obviously not in need of Thorin’s attentions. Deep within the wreckage, a small hand lay flat upon the cobblestones. Every few moments, the fingers flexed against the stone and a soft whimpering inhale could be heard.

"Murdêl. The wagon."

Murdêl stepped forward on carefully placed hooves until he was close to what had once been a driver’s box. Leveraging his shoulder beneath the broken wood, he leaned against the wreckage with all his considerable weight, and the pile shifted just enough for Thorin to finally reach his charge.

Death extended an arm to lay his hand against the boy’s chest and swiped his hand quickly along the broken skin, fingers closing around his palm. When he withdrew, a small shining stone lay in his hand and the boy was still. Tucking the soulstone safely away, Thorin extricated himself from the scene and began to thread his way back through the crowd with Murdêl following close behind.

He sidestepped the hushed group of boys looking on and carded one hand through his hair unhappily. He understood all too well the purpose of Death but the collection of young souls was never a pleasant task. He only attended those whose fate had become inextricably knotted in the weave or whose life had been cut unexpectedly short. Appointments with children always seemed to be the later and no matter how many times he performed these duties, he could not help but feel a bit bitter at the loss of what that child could have been. 

He had just made it to the edge of the crowd when a small voice spoke suddenly in his ear. "Thorin?"

Thorin's heart nearly rabbited out of his chest at the unexpected address and he whirled around in a tight circle looking for the source. Murdêl snorted and pushed close, offering his bulk as a shield.

It was then that Thorin abruptly remembered the Hobbit and the gem he'd left with him. His instructions had been straightforward, Hold the gem and call me if you have need. Mounting quickly, he firmly took the reins and commanded, "The Shire, Murdêl."

The great ram gathered himself beneath Thorin and leapt straight over the milling crowd, landing with a clatter of hooves on a patch of suddenly cleared cobblestones. With another great leap they were away from the city of Men and the countryside was blurring around them. Middle Earth was by no means small and Death was in need from one far flung corner to the other. Such was his power that he could be anywhere he needed with very little notice, even half way across the continent in the lush green of the Shire.

Murdêl came down quickly upon the same hill Thorin had visited not so very long ago, this time leaving deep furrows in the soil in his haste. Throwing himself from the saddle, Thorin drew his sword and pulled his cloak more closely about him as he raced down the side of the hillock. He crashed through the round door with little thought to the painted wood and followed the pull of his ruby to a warm, bright room at the back of the Hobbit hole.

As he cleared the doorway, there was the sudden sound of shattering pottery. Thorin brought his sword up to guard against an attack and scanned the room hastily for the threat.

It was empty except for the Hobbit, clutching fearfully at his chest. "Oh, dear."

Thorin blinked slowly and then surveyed the room again sure that he must have missed something.

"Now see here, you! You can't come barreling into someone's home like that!"

Thorin's gaze was drawn back to the single occupant - the Hobbit standing alone in his kitchen with a shattered pot at his feet - with a snap. He had puffed up his chest and his hands had migrated to his hips, his face flushed in anger. "What do you mean by barging in like that?" he demanded.

With nothing to direct it towards, Thorin's battle readiness flashed over to anger. He threw back his hood to reveal his face and snarled, "You called me, Hobbit! And I see no reason for it except perhaps your desire to tug on my leash!"

Bilbo spluttered and went a deep red. "How dare you! I did no such thing! Do you always blame others for your poor manners?"

Manners! As if that was the primary concern here. Thorin growled low in his throat and pointed menacingly at the small gem he had spied lying on a cleared counter. "I am not the one with poor manners here, Halfling. You do not lie well."

Bilbo went white in anger and then at the sight of the gem the righteous indignation seemed to drain from him leaving him slightly reduced.

"Oh. Well." He seemed uncertain of his words and his hands had gone from his hips to twist once fretfully in the air at his side. "I didn't think you were real,” he offered in a more tempered voice tinged with embarrassment.

Thorin blinked in consternation, his sword lowering to rest point down by his boots. "You pulled me from my duties to satisfy your curiosity?" he half growled, torn between anger and surprise at the sheer gall of the being before him.

"Oh, no, certainly not." The Hobbit made to step forward and then glanced down at his feet and the mess of pottery shards and dark liquid. Looking up, he addressed Thorin more civilly.

"Please. Have a seat. I'm terribly sorry. Let me clean this up and I can offer you some tea."

Thorin looked at him, amazed. "Tea? I have duties to attend to, Hobbit."

While he was speaking, Bilbo had crouched down and gathered up the remains of his tea pot with a damp towel, soaking up the mess of tea leaves and spilled liquid in the process.

"Nonsense. There's always time for tea. Unless I called you in the middle of...” At this he looked up at Thorin, eyes full of some strange mixture of sympathy and horror.

Honesty took Thorin's tongue before he could think better of it. "No. I had just finished."

"Well then. Tea it is,” Bilbo decided for them both. “It's the least I can do, having made such a mess of this."

Without quite knowing how he lost the argument against afternoon tea, Thorin found himself seated at the kitchen table with a fragrant cup and a plate full of pastries. His sword, boots, and cloak had been whisked off to parts unknown by the Hobbit before he could register a complaint, leaving him feeling peculiarly under dressed. Shortly after the Hobbit left the room, Thorin heard the front door close with perhaps a bit too much emphasis. He could just make out the sound of the Hobbit muttering to himself about guests who didn’t have the decency to close the front door after themselves as he made his way back toward the kitchen. 

Thorin replaced the smile that wanted to tug at his lips with a neutral look as Bilbo seated himself across from him with a satisfied air. He was sure he had been in more awkward situations but he was hard pressed to name one as he found himself sitting across from the Hobbit in nothing more than his shirt sleeves and trousers, holding a delicate cup of tea. The silence stretched painfully between them and Thorin was finally forced to take a sip of tea for lack of anything else to do.

"Again," Bilbo started in an overly loud voice that he quickly corrected with a flush. "I’m sorry for calling you so abruptly. You see, I woke on the couch all those weeks ago and I thought it must have all been a bit of an odd dream. The Wizard and the..." here he waved his hand vaguely in a circle around chest height, which Thorin took to be a reference to Tharkûn’s soulstone. 

"But there was your note and the jewel. And I thought, I’d just put it away. Out of sight, out of mind, they say." The Hobbit gave a bit of a self deprecating smile and picked up his pastry only to set it back down immediately thereafter. Thorin couldn’t help but watch, entranced as the Hobbit made an odd sort of moue with his mouth, pinching his lips and twitching his nose once. 

"But it was still there, you know?” He didn’t seem able to look directly at Thorin. Instead his eyes flitted between the table and Thorin’s right shoulder. “In the drawer, of course, but also on my mind. And I thought, well, what could it hurt? Holding the jewel and calling for you?” With one hand he turned his plate a quarter turn to the left, then turned it back, fidgeting. 

“It sounded ridiculous, you know? And then when nothing happened, I'd know, right?" He didn't seem to require any response from Thorin for all that he had asked the question because he continued on without a pause. "And then suddenly you were here with that sword in my kitchen and I’m quite certain it wasn’t you at all at first, but then it was. And really,” he admonished with a stern frown, “you scared me near to death."

At the last, Thorin's brows rose straight up to his hairline and the Hobbit went suddenly a bit pale. "I... I didn't mean... What I meant to say was..."

Thorin snorted, no longer able to hide the small twitch of a smile that he could feel teasing at the edge of his lips. "Peace, halfling. You have apologized already."

Bilbo bristled, although whether more because of Thorin's ill concealed amusement or his comment, was unclear. Perhaps both as he immediately admonished Thorin. "Bilbo. My name is Bilbo. And I'm a Hobbit, thank you very much. Not a halfling."

Thorin canted his head slightly in silent apology and put down the teacup in favor of taking a bite of pastry. The tart had a pleasant sharp taste to it that Thorin couldn’t quite identify. Surprised he took a more substantial bite and looked up to catch Bilbo smiling to himself in satisfaction over the sound of Thorin's pleased hum.

"So. Um. I interrupted you at your." Bilbo seemed to lose steam as he searched frantically for a polite word to encompass the realities of death. “Duties?” he finally settled on, flustered.

For some reason, Thorin found himself carefully wiping his fingers on a much too delicate table napkin and drawing forth the child's soulstone from his inner pocket. Reverently, he laid it on the table then unwrapped the felt cloth from around it so it sat glowing softly from a bed of velvety black. It was a small thing, no larger than a peach pit and striated in ice blues and pale greens that reminded Thorin of early springs in the far north.

A quiet gasp brought his attention back to Bilbo.

"It was a child of Man. Caught in an accident with a wagon."

The Hobbit made a soft, wounded sound and covered his mouth with faintly shaking fingers. "It's beautiful," he murmured quietly.

Thorin could only nod. He had always found them so himself; each soulstone glowed with an inner light that was captivating. 

"What do you do with them?" the Hobbit asked curiously. He reached out with a tentative finger as if to stroke the little stone. "You don't keep them, do you?"

Thorin looked up sharply, hand immediately reaching out to shelter the stone. "Of course not!" he growled, quickly bundling the soulstone back up in its cloth and tucking it safely away. "I am Death, not a soul eater."

Bilbo blinked at the unfamiliar term and quickly pulled his hand back. He looked down at it in surprise, as if he hadn't even known he had been reaching for the stone.

"Sorry," he stammered. "I meant no offense. I seem to be doing this all wrong," he muttered, half in self reproach and half in apology. He sighed to himself then soldiered on quickly. "Do you know how he came to be here? Gandalf, I mean?”

Thorin shook his head but once again the Hobbit seemed to need little response from him. The tale poured from him in a rush of frustrated words and punctuated by restless gestures of his hands.

“He showed up at my gate that very same morning. I hadn’t seen him in years, not since, well, not for a very long time,” he amended clearly avoiding some topic. “I hardly even remembered him. But then he was going on about leaving and telling me not to worry as he had called on a friend who would look after me.” Bilbo sniffed in order to clearly convey how absurd he still found that idea to be. “And then before I’d turned about, you were there and he was gone. And I still have no blasted clue who you are or why any of this has happened."

The Hobbit set his mouth firmly and stared at Thorin obviously waiting for a reply. At a loss, Thorin sat back stiffly in his seat. "The Wizard told you who I was. I am Death. As to the other, I have no more idea of why the Wizard did what he did than you."

The Hobbit huffed. "I know you say you are Death, but really what does that mean?"

Thorin could only look at him in confusion. What did it mean to be Death? What an odd sort of question.

Bilbo drew in a deep breath and finally settled enough to curl his hands around his teacup. "Thorin. I am a Hobbit. And as a Hobbit, when I die, I expect that I shall be laid to rest next to my parents and my soul will travel to the ever green fields and I shall be reunited with those who have passed before me. Never before have I heard of a soulstone or disappearing in a blinding light or any of this magic that seems to follow you."

Thorin stared at him. How did someone explain something as basic as death? His tongue twisted around the only words that he could offer.

"All things in Middle Earth die and it is my responsibility to see that they make it to the after. For Hobbits that is Yavanna's Fields. For Dwarves, the Halls of Waiting. I sent Gandalf to the West, as was his wish, and I will see this soul off as well," he noted absently brushing the softest of finger tips across the quilted fabric of his vest.

"But there must be so many. How can you possibly attend us all?" the Hobbit asked with an honest look of confusion.

Thorin groped for the right words. "Most people die and their place in the weave is filled with new threads. The same way you don’t ask your heart to beat, I don’t actively need to assist them. But some threads are twisted too tightly with others or cut unexpectedly. Those I attend to personally." It was a far less elegant and true explanation then the reality but it was the best that Thorin could articulate.

It seemed to satisfy the Hobbit or at least give him some partial understanding for he nodded and looked thoughtful. "You must be very old, then." he mused seemly without forethought.

Thorin couldn't help the bark of laughter that the statement startled from him. Bilbo flushed in embarrassment. "I'm sorry. I seem to be all wrongfooted today."

"I am not the first Death nor shall I be the last," Thorin offered with a wry grin.

Rather than putting him off, this only seemed to further intrigue him. Thorin had met all types of people in his travels but rarely one so openly curious about him. 

"Were you born to it then? How does one become Death?"

Images of a long ago battle pushed to the front of Thorin's mind. He no longer heard the screams or smelled the blood of the dead and dying; the memory was old and worn. But he could still clearly see Death standing over him, an incongruously golden Elf reaching out for his soul. That still had the power to invoke a hard ache in his chest.

"I killed my predecessor to became Death," he offered before he could think better of it, mind tangled in threads of memory.

There was a clatter of porcelain as the Hobbit dropped his teacup onto his saucer. Thorin’s attention was drawn back to the present, musings broken. "Excuse me?" Bilbo asked, aghast.

Thorin smiled with perhaps a touch of vindictive glee. If one was going to be overly curious then one should be prepared to be discomfited. "It is the way of these things. There was a battle and Death had come for me. In my despair, I raised my sword against him. If we are careful we have our own protections, but either he was not careful that day or he had grown weary of the duty. My sword struck true and I became Death."

The Hobbit made a small sound of horror and his gaze flickered off in the direction of the hall, most likely wondering if the sword he’d divested Thorin of was the same weapon that had slayed Death. The sword had been his since his majority and had indeed killed Death in that fateful battle but it was just a sword. Nothing more nor less.

"I have made the best of my fate and will continue to perform my duties until one day I am reckless or ready to lay down my burden."

There was a much more to the story than what he had shared with the Hobbit and by the look on his face, Bilbo knew that too. But he didn't press further. Instead he moved on to another question.

"How long ago was that?"

Thorin did a quick mental calculation and to his surprise came up with a number far larger than the last time he'd thought on it. "I died during a battle between Dwarves and Orcs in the second age."

Bilbo was visibly aghast at his response. "You've been doing this since the second age?"

Thorin could only offer a small shrug of his shoulders. Time meant something different when you had lived as many years as Thorin had.

"That's barbaric!" Bilbo exclaimed in righteous fury.

Thorin flinched from the sudden attack, free hand clenching into a fist. His skin prickled with a sudden rush of hot anger. It was far from the first time he’d been railed against; the dying often cursed him. That didn’t diminish the unfairness of it though. Death was a necessary part of living, not some evil perpetrated on Middle Earth through malice.

Bilbo continued on seemly unconcerned with Thorin’s own mounting anger. "You’ve been forced to spend the last age travelling Middle Earth and collecting these stone things?" 

"Soulstones." Thorin offered, thrown off by the sudden turn in conversation.

"Yes! Those!" Bilbo said pointing at him with a stiff finger. "Don't you get tired of it all? Or lonely?" he asked, abruptly seeming to lose steam.

Thorin stared at him for a moment, unsure how to deal with anger on his behalf. It was a rare occasion that it was not directed at him and he felt rather bewildered by the Hobbit’s outrage. "I rest," he protested, with the first thought that came to mind. One of the first lessons Thorin had learned was that he could simply take a break when needed and death would wait for him. Not indefinitely of course, but plenty long enough for him to rest. 

"And I eat." 

"You eat?" Bilbo asked stunned.

Thorin looked blankly at the small portion of pastry left on his plate and Bilbo followed his gaze. Spying the obvious truth to Thorin's words, he colored again. 

"I am _Death_ , not dead." Thorin remarked wryly. He barreled on as the Hobbit opened his mouth again to speak. There was little chance of him getting a word in if he didn't make room for them himself. "And I am not lonely."

It was true that there were few people that Thorin interacted with, and most were dead, but that didn't mean he was lonely. The Hobbit’s mouth had gone tight and he obviously had something further to say on the matter. Before Bilbo could offer whatever argument or sympathy was on the tip of his tongue, though, a shadow passed before the large round window and Thorin found himself looking at Murdêl across the intervening space. The great ram shook his head heavily back and forth as if to chivvy Thorin.

Bilbo immediately stood and marched over to the large round kitchen window to investigate.

"What is a ram doing in my flower garden?" he asked hotly.

Thorin glanced at his wrist where the stones on his cuff flashed sharply. His time was spent, it appeared. With a feeling a little like regret, he rose. "That is Murdêl,” he answered as he placed his teacup and plate on the sideboard. “And it appears as if I am needed."

Bilbo turned back to him as Thorin crossed to the doorway and into the hall. Looking left then right, he oriented himself on the front door and located his missing items set beside it. He strode over quickly and drew them on, setting ties and buckles with practiced ease and repositioning his sword on his back.

Bilbo appeared at his elbow, Thorin's ruby held out stretched in his open palm. "Did you wish to take this?" he asked, offering the stone to Thorin.

"No," Thorin shook his head. "Tharkûn asked me to look after you and I doubt he did so just so you could offer me tea."

At this Bilbo smiled. He drew back his hand with the gem tucked away in his closed palm. "I did enjoy tea, even if it was unexpected," he offered with a self conscious grin.

Privately, Thorin agreed. While he might have been loath to baldly admit it to the Hobbit, it had been far too long since he'd spent any significant time with another mortal. People would sometimes try to engage him in conversation when he was making a collection but somehow he didn’t think that would quite count as an acceptable social engagement by the Hobbit’s reckoning.

"Will you perhaps come again? If you have time?"

Thorin couldn't imagine when that might be but he found himself nodding just the same before stepping out the door to meet Murdêl. It had been an odd morning, but not an unpleasant one.

"Goodbye, Bilbo Baggins."

"Goodbye, Thorin Deathless." Bilbo returned with amused formality.

Once again, Thorin found the world around him blurring as Murdêl leapt away but the deep green of the Shire seemed to trail after him for a long time thereafter.


	3. The Halls of Waiting

Many hours and many appointments later, Thorin found himself standing on the northern steppes looking over endless waves of rolling grass. Bilbo had not been wrong in his assumption that the duties of Death were never ending and Thorin was profoundly tired. 

He took a deep breath in and released it, trying to force his body to relax and lose some of the tension from his last collections. Not more children, thank the Valar, but more deaths that seemed to have been otherwise easily avoided. Murdêl pushed his great head under Thorin's lax arm, positioning himself fittingly for the attention he was not so subtly seeking. Thorin let his mind go blissfully blank as he concentrated on rubbing and scratching through the coarse hair along the ram's chin and up to his great curving horns.

"Home, I think, Murdêl." He said softly as he gave the steed a final pat. Murdêl snorted in agreement and turned to offer his back. 

Thorin had once had a home deep within his grandfather’s mountain. And Thorin had died defending that home and his people, but after his death, he found that he no longer had a place there. Those who had survived the battle had reported Thorin as lost and mourned his passing along with all the other dead. He could have miraculously returned, he supposed. There certainly seemed to be no prohibition against it. But what good would it have served? And who would it have made happy? Certainly not himself. And certainly not any of those who had been left to mourn him. 

But if Death rightly had no place among the living, it had come as a surprise to find that he also had no place among the dead. When he had tried to follow his nephews, he had found that the whole of the afterlife had been barred to him, as surely as his mountain home. The Wizard had once tried to explain the wheres and why fors to Thorin with more words than necessary, and a detour into the purpose and role of Death, but for Thorin it was simple. 

Death was not dead; nor was he truly alive. Death stood alone. He existed in a limbo of sorts. And as in all other aspects of his duties, that was where Murdêl had proved to be invaluable.

Those first days after the battle, Thorin had collected soulstones without pause until exhaustion cut his legs out beneath him and he was forced to find some secluded spot for a few hours rest. After one too many cycles of collections and exhausted rest, the great ram had refused to head west under the guidance of Thorin’s gems and instead had forcibly turned the both of them north. The ram had taken them to the very top of no mountain Thorin had ever seen, far beyond what should have been the physical summit, to a large valley tucked between broken peaks. Thorin had no name for the mountain or the valley but it was now home.

Returning again this evening, Thorin dismounted and pulled down the small saddle bag he used for his trips. “Thank you, Murdêl. I believe that I’ll stay for the evening. You should take some time to rest as well.” The ram gave his great shaggy coat a vigorous shake and the reins and saddle Thorin used disappeared - a convenient sort of magic that freed Thorin from the task of grooming. Then Murdêl trotted off, leaving Thorin alone.

Thorin turned and made his way to a large stone door set against the flat face of the valley wall. As he approached, the door lit with silvery runes and swung open to let him pass. The halls within would never compare to the grandness of his grandfather’s halls but they were clean, well-aired, and well lit. And even though Thorin had never been one to accumulate possessions, an age had been more than enough time to result in a hall full of the small comforts that made a home. Perhaps not as well appointed as a Hobbit hole, Thorin mused apropos of nothing, but certainly comfortable and exactly what he needed when he took time for himself.

Within the entrance hall, he carefully removed his cloak and weapons and hung them in reach for when he next ventured out. His heavy boots he exchanged for soft leather slippers lined with a silky fleece that he’d gotten from a merchant in Pelargir. On a small shelf, he left the other accoutrements of the Office - his wrist cuff, an earring that allowed him to understand any spoken language, and his ring. The saddle bag and the last few soulstones he'd gathered he kept on his person taking with him as he climbed a short flight of stairs to his workroom.

He wasn't sure how his predecessor had dealt with his collected soulstones. The previous Death had been an Elf and Thorin had little doubt that he had ever lived in these mountain caves. When Thorin had first arrived in the valley, a large tree had stood in the center with great walkways twisting through its branches. But the tree had faded into a meadow and the mountain door had appeared soon after. Since that day, the mountain had changed several times to suit him but this workroom had been here since that first day and had never changed.

Thorin opened the door and moved to uncover the lamps. The lamps revealed a tidy workroom with a small personal forge, a workbench set against a short wall, and a three legged stool that canted ever so slightly to one side on a short leg. In design, it was an exact replica of his grandmother’s workspace right down to the irregular corner where the granite of the mountain had been bisected by a vein of basalt. But his grandmother had been a blacksmith and her workshop had been filled with raw lengths of iron and the ringing of hammers. Thorin’s workshop was stocked for an entirely different craft.

One long wall was entirely dedicated to shelves stacked from the floor to ceiling. Along each were placed rows and rows of tightly woven baskets containing tiny gears, springs, and other assorted items. The other wall was full of tools: hammers marching down in size from the largest to smallest, awls from greatest diameter to the least, tweezers, turnscrews, and wire cutters. And at the far end the other noted difference to be found in the workshop - a small portal to the sky outside.

Thorin laid his burden on the workbench and carefully began to unwrap each soulstone. The first two were from a pair of Elves killed in the poisoned forests of the Mirkwood - the soulstones were the cracked and striped red of petrified wood. The next stone was a woman of Man - her stone the soft, muted green of sea glass washed unto the shores of her fishing village. The last was another Man, although this one had been an elder from one of the nomadic tribes. His stone was worn smooth and glossy as if made of the finest grained sand. 

Thorin sat a moment and regarded the soulstones. They were such small things to represent a full life. But this was the part of his duties that he found the most peace in - ensuring the soulstones passed safely to the end of their journey. 

He turned to his shelves and let his eyes roam from end to end. To help them on their way, small contraptions of every kind lined Thorin’s shelves, tucked in and among the baskets of parts. In life, Thorin had no more than a passing familiarity with the small, intricate contraptions used as toys for small dwarflings or curiosities of the more mechanically inclined. But in the years he had served as Death, Thorin had become the equal of any Master from the gilded age of Dwarves.

A small sailing ship caught his eye and he carefully pulled it down and laid it on the workbench by the elven soul stones. The tiny planks were made of the thinnest beaten copper and the prow was curved into the neck and beak of an elegant bird. Twin sails made from scraps of silk curved up from the shining hull to propel the ship easily through the air. On the deck was a small golden chest where Thorin deposited the precious soulstones. He secured the lid tightly then gave the mechanism in the wheelhouse a gentle push with his finger. Hidden within the belly of the ship, a small set of counterweights fell into motion, compressing springs and driving tiny gears. 

The small ship sprang to life, tugging at his hands in its eagerness to be free. Thorin cupped it in his palms and lifted it to the open portal. Gracefully, it rose into the air and disappeared off into the clouds on its way across the sea.

  
Thorin Ushers Soulstones to the After Art by [kironomi](http://bracari-iris.tumblr.com/) and [Teaxdragon](http://teaxdragon.tumblr.com/)  


The soulstones of Men were a bit more singular in their modes of transportation but a winged horse with the soulstone secured deep within its chest and a bright silver winged bird likewise burdened served them well. Thorin never questioned how he knew what conveyance to chose. The choice always seemed obvious once he had reached this point. The same held true for when he crafted - the tiny contraptions almost assembled themselves when he devoted time to replenishing his stock.

With the last soulstone seen off, Thorin returned to the shelves. He paced up and down the length pulling down a selection of items to tuck into his saddle bag. He preferred to travel with a small supply of items so that he could send the stones he’d collected off to the _after_ whenever there was a break in his schedule rather than holding them all until he was next in his workshop. Although, these days he found his bag empty all too often. 

Seemingly of their own accord, his hands reached up and carefully plucked a bit of fluff from where it was tucked almost out of sight behind a basket of gears. Upon inspection it turned out to be a small, hollow seed pod suspended below a canopy of metal filaments that would catch the air just so to carry a soulstone aloft on the wind. Thorin refused to speculate what sort of mortal the tiny seed may carry while he carefully tucked it into his bag next to the other selections. 

This task done, Thorin leaned back on his heels, stretching out his back, arms above his head. One more thing to do and he could find his rest.

He put his workshop back to rights and tiredly made his way to his kitchen, intent on grabbing a quick dinner. Sometimes he would eat while traveling if a vendor’s stall or tavern caught his eye and tempted his nose. But the mountain provided for this, as well, with a cold storage cupboard that never ran empty. This evening he wasn’t interested in cooking, so he chose some cold slices of meat and cheese with a loaf of bread. A bottle of ale rounded out his meal. 

It was only as he was sitting down to eat that he registered the strange light that filled the room. Looking up from his food, he found himself staring across the width of his kitchen table at a newly installed window in the far wall. It was large and round and through it streamed the pale light of the full moon. 

That the mountain had decided to include a window in the space was not what struck him as odd. Small changes were common; all he need do was recognize the need or desire for a new or reconfigured space and the mountain would oblige. The kitchen itself had changed several times, for example, once repositioning the small hearth to more efficiently heat the space and raising the ceiling a few spans to allow for more shelving and a low hung lamp. Instead it was the design of the window that brought him up short. He had seen that same round fashioned window not so long ago, in a Hobbit hole under a hill. 

Flustered, Thorin rose to inspect the new addition. The kitchen was a simple room with a hearth, a sink, some storage, and a table set. And that was all he had needed. But now, there was a window. And as Thorin turned back to survey the kitchen as a whole, he found to his consternation that the stone counters had seemingly been burnished to a warm, wooden shine and the previously utilitarian sink had taken on a softer, rounded appearance with a new spigot of aged copper. There was also now a second chair set at the slightly larger table.

“Enough," he muttered to no one in particular. No other changes caught his eye but the room remained stubbornly different. Perhaps, he thought with a disgruntled sigh, it had indeed been too long since he'd sought out anyone's company other than his own. He would make time to visit the Halls, he decided abruptly.

Mind resolved, Thorin hastily downed the last of his meal and headed to bed. If he unexpectedly noted the absence of someone to bid good evening to, he certainly didn’t dwell on it. The last thing he needed was to test what the mountain would try to generate just to satisfy Thorin’s sudden and inconvenient desire for company.

\---

When he mounted the next day, a flash of his gems let him know that he was needed immediately. Thorin indulged himself in a long sigh before directing Murdêl to take him to this meeting first. At least, it appeared to be in the general direction he wished to travel and hopefully he could be on his ways to the Halls quickly thereafter.

It was a short trip to a pass deep within the Misty Mountains. At first glance, standing in a rocky clearing just below the tree line Thorin wondered if he had arrived too early. The morning seemed quiet and undisturbed. Bird calls from the nearby trees showed that the animals in the area were unconcerned with any visitors and there were no obvious signs of anyone having passed this way recently. The cat’s eye clearly showed that the time was correct, however.

Thorin dismounted to look around. Closing his eyes, Thorin concentrated on his other senses and was rewarded by the faint sounds of stone shifting and beneath that the rasp of a cough. Orienting on the sound, Thorin rounded a copse of trees and finally located his charge. The path disappeared just beyond a twisted pine, sheared from the mountain side as if cut with an immense axe. Several lengths below on a small outcropping of rock lay a Man.

“Murdêl,” Thorin called. The ram trotted over and Thorin remounted. With skill that had to be more a result of his magic than his heritage, the ram sprang down the cliff face, finding invisible cracks and irregular rocks within the cliff face to allow them to reach the Man. Even if the climb up had been possible, it became quickly clear that the Man was in no shape to have attempted it. He was resting on his side wedged between two boulders and his legs were both broken.

“I have been waiting for you, Death,” the Man wheezed. His chest appeared to have been partially crushed in the fall and his lips had taken on a bloodless hue that clearly showed he was struggling to get air.

Thorin surveyed the scene critically, looking for anywhere that he could place his feet that wasn’t directly on top of the poor Man. His dying had been painful enough and Thorin was rightfully loath to add to it.

“I am sorry for making you wait,” he offered in a low, sincere voice. Not all deaths were quick and he was only called in the final moments but that didn’t stop him from wishing to provide whatever solace he could.

The Man shrugged off his words causing him to bark out another cough. A sharp grimace twisted his face as he fought his way through the pain. Finally, when he seemed to breath a bit easier again, he offered, “I knew that I would not survive last night but I am happy to have at least seen one more dawn.”

If Thorin was careful, he should be able to dismount with his back to the cliff and his feet braced on the boulder the Man was lain across. Then he could slide down to a sitting position that would allow him to comfortably reach the Man. Action decided on, Thorin stood in the saddle and swung his outside leg around Murdêl’s back so that he was standing, both legs together, one foot in the stirrup, with his braced arms supporting his weight.

“Where were you headed?” he asked, hoping to distract the Man from his pain while he got into position.

“Home,” the Man said softly closing his eyes. “But there was a storm and Giants of stone. They cut the path right beneath me. And now here I am.”

Cautiously, Thorin placed his feet on the boulder. It shifted slightly but held. He steadily transferred his full weight to the stone keeping a sharp eye on the Man’s face. The rock continued to shift and the Man’s features tightened in pain again.

“One moment more,” he promised as he hastily slid his back down the cliff face so he was resting on his heels.

The Man only groaned again as his body continued to fight for breath even when they both knew it was a futile gesture. “Please,” the Man cried out, “please!”

Thorin reached out a hand and quickly palmed the Man’s soulstone. They both breathed out a sigh of relief; for the Man, it was his last. Stone giants, Thorin mused as he carefully wrapped the stone and tucked it away. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen them active in the mountain passes. It was just one more thing to mull on when he had time. 

Getting back up to the top of the cliff was no easier than getting down had been but they were on their way shortly thereafter. As he continued west, he picked up a farmer who had been beset by Trolls that, by all rights, should not have been in the lowlands. Then there was the Man who’d been tempted into the Barrow Downs. Thankfully, Thorin had been quick enough to save his soulstone from the barrow-wights. He had no doubt that they would have quickly consumed the stone given the chance, trapping the Man’s spirit in the Downs. The last appointment was a Hobbit, of all creatures, drowned in the Brandywine River. Thorin pulled out the tiny wire seed and sent his soul on its way along with all the others.

“That’s enough for this morning, Murdêl,” he decided as he watched the soulstones disappear into the distance.

Murdêl carried him west to the sea and further still until they came finally to Valinor and the Halls of Waiting. Thorin dismounted before the towering gates to the Halls, and the ram trotted off to wherever he went while Thorin spent his time here. He had never asked if the ram could enter the Halls or if he just chose not to. In all honesty, Thorin wasn’t sure if Murdêl was even alive or if he was just another manifestation of the office of Death. He had certainly not aged in all the years he had served Thorin.

Shaking off his wandering thoughts, Thorin stepped close to the imposing gates. The doors rose in two graceful arches twice the height of the the great statues that used to guard his grandfather’s mountain. Even in the diffuse golden light, the inlaid design of mithril gleamed in complex arabesques of Dwarven runes that charted the course of the Dwarves from first to last.

Thorin reached beneath his tunic to pull out the key he kept always close - his most prized of possessions. Taking a deep breath, he carefully fit it into a tiny keyhole located within the family sigils of Durin the Deathless. Gandalf’s key had never failed him but he found himself holding his breath each time he came to this point. He’d like to believe that Mahal knew of the key and had chosen to allow this small bit of disobedience, but Thorin could not stop himself from worrying that even this would be taken from him.

Today was not to be that day though as the key turned smoothly. The runes around the keyhole sparked and faded to create a small doorway just big enough for Thorin to pass through. Muttering a small prayer of thanks, Thorin slipped the key on its chain back around his neck and stepped through.

Beyond the gates, the Halls were lit brightly with the same golden light as the land outside. A rough caw greeted him as he entered the large atrium and a large raven flew down from a shadowed perch to alight on Thorin’s outstretched arm.

“Greetings, Death.” The raven tucked her head towards her feet with wings fanned out in a courtly bow.

“Greetings, Messenger.” None of the ravens had ever shared their name with Thorin but he knew by size and variations in color that there were several different birds that shared the duties of greeting new arrivals to the Halls. “I would speak with Dís, Daughter of the line of Durin Deathless, if she would see me.”

The raven bobbed her head once from side to side as if weighing his words then fluffed out her feathers. “As you ask,” she croaked. She launched herself from her perch and flew off down the great golden way deeper into the Halls.

Thorin had never dared follow the path from the atrium further into the Halls, unsure whether his stolen welcome extended that far. Instead he settled himself on his feet and prepared to wait. His sister usually made time to see him whenever he chose to come but every now and then the messenger would return alone and report that she was unavailable. This time it seemed as if he was in luck, though, as before long he could hear the sound of measured footfalls approaching.

Dís had died an old dwarrow many years after Thorin had taken up the mantle of Death. After his final battle, he had looked in on her from time to time but had never been able to bring himself to make himself known to her. He was burdened enough with his new duties and his own grief; he had not wanted add to the burden his sister bore. In the end, he hadn’t even known she had died until well after the fact since Death had not been called for her. He was both thankful for and resented the mercy of that.

When he had finally learned that she had passed, he’d travelled to the Smith’s Halls for the first time since he had sought out his nephews a century before. He was sure she had answered his call that first time only to have the satisfaction of venting her anger towards him. 

And by Mahal, had she been angry. Angry at the loss of a longed for reunion with her family made whole. Angry that she still, even in death, could not share the grief of all that they had lost with him. Angry that no one except her sons had seen or spoken to Thorin in over a century and no one truly knew of his fate. Faced with her wrath, Thorin had been prepared to promise anything to atone for the grief he had caused. Shrewdly, all she’d demanded was that he faithfully visit the Halls, if only so that she would know that he was still alive somewhere out in the world.

Over time he’d grown to be thankful for her mercenary turn. His sister had become his only link to his past; the only person left who remembered him for who he had been rather than who he now was. Watching her appear from the shadows of the deep Hall, he found himself smiling. He had missed her. 

As she drew nearer, she opened her arms to welcome him. He let out a deep breath as she reached out to enfold him him a hug.

“Nadad,” she greeted him warmly.

“Nan'ith.” He pulled back slightly to lay his forehead against hers. Her skin was warm and dry against his own and her hair brushed against his cheek as she rocked her head gently from side to side in a gesture from childhood. Her clothes held the warm scent of an industrious day and he wondered if he had pulled her from some project. He knocked his forehead against hers gently and then pulled back.

She let him go but kept her hands on his shoulders, eyes weighing him in a quick moment. “You look tired,” she said in her typically blunt manner.

“I am,” he sighed. “Walk with me?”

He tucked her arm through his own and turned to slowly pace the length of the atrium. In companionable silence they passed through tall pillars of marble and walls decorated with murals and motifs. Walking beside him she seemed ageless. Her hair was untouched by the silver of age and her face bore only the strong lines of their lineage. For all that she’d lived to die of old age, it was he who looked the worse for the passing years, he knew.

“You are more tired than usual though. What’s wrong?” she asked after a short while.

He sighed. Leave it to Dís to open a conversation with the most thorny topic first. “The Grey Wizard has left Middle Earth and it seems as if the world has gone slightly mad,” he replied with a flippant twist to his words that fell flat.

She looked at him sharply and her steps faltered for a moment. Thorin held his arm steady for her but she was pulling them back into motion with barely a pause. “Tharkûn has died?” 

“Aye. And since then I haven’t had a moment of peace.”

“But, what about our debt? How shall we clear the scales now?”

Thorin shook his head. He understood that she keenly felt the debt of gratitude owed to the Wizard for allowing them this but, as always, she assumed too much of the burden. 

“The debt was mine alone, nan'ith. The key was given to me to allow me to pass into these Halls and it was my promise of payment, not yours.” She gave a sharp sniff as if to dismiss his words but he continued on before she could argue. “And besides, he charged me with guarding a Hobbit as payment of the debt.”

“One of the halflings?” Part of Thorin was gratified to hear his sister just as confused and affronted as he had been when the Wizard had proposed the scheme. “What sort of protection could a Hobbit possibly need?”

“I have no idea.” He cast a sideways glance at his sister to catch her reaction to his words. “He’s an odd little thing but his ambushes result in invitations to tea rather than bloodshed.”

Dís’ eyebrows rose so high that they looked fair to disappearing beneath the fall of the hair on her brow. “You’ve taken tea with a halfling?”

Thorin’s shoulders stiffened at the gleeful disbelief in his sister’s voice. “Bilbo Baggins,” he corrected shortly. “And yes. As I said.”

His sister’s gaze immediately softened and she reached out to lay a hand on his arm. The warmth of her hand seemed to seep into his skin and he found he could not hold on to his irritation when presented with the very real evidence of her continued existence.

“I only tease, Nadad.” She narrowed her eyes at him in gentle rebuke. “You spend too much time on your own. We see too little of you.”

Thorin had no argument to mount against the quiet statement. It was true. These days his grief had become a soft thing but his guilt still bit at him harshly. Guilt at having lived when so many others - his sister-sons - had not. Guilt over placing so many in such peril and not being able to protect any of them. Guilt over not having the bravery to turn his duties over to another and make his way to the Halls to finally join those he had failed.

“It was just the once. And as I said, I have no time for tea these days,” he deflected.

Dís graciously accepted the turn in conversation and did him the courtesy of not calling him on his obvious evasion. “And you think the Wizard’s death is to blame?”

Thorin had thought on that very question more than a few times lately. “When do Wizards not have a hand in such things?” he grumbled. “Loathe as I am to say it though, I don’t believe he is truly to blame. Before he died, he asked for a brief moment to speak. He mentioned foul things on the move but said his vision was clouded. He seemed to think going West would help somehow.”

Dís shrugged. “I don’t see how, but then again, I am not a Wizard.” Reaching the far edge of the hall, she turned them to retrace their path. “And Mr. Baggins has nothing to add to this mystery?” she asked.

“He seems to be just as confused as I.” 

“Perhaps…” she mused trailing off in a quiet hum. Thorin kept his silence as they walked further, letting her sort through her thoughts. 

There was a peace here in Aulë’s Halls that he revelled in. He may not have it in himself to actively seek his own death, to lay down the burden of his duties and let another assume his mantle, but when the time came, he would gladly enter the Halls as a returning son and not as a sneak thief.

“Have you been to see the Weaver?” Dís asked at length.

Thorin blinked, his mind wiped empty by the strangeness of the question.

“I,” he started then stopped and started again. “Is such a thing possible?”

Dís’ eyes shifted to look around the hall. Thorin wasn’t sure if she was looking for eavesdroppers or perhaps just didn’t want to look at Thorin himself suddenly.

“From time to time,” she offered quietly, “she will grant an audience for a dwarrow in particular need.” 

Dís pinned Thorin with a heavy look that had him closing his mouth on the obvious question. It was truly not his business if she had asked anything of Vairë the Weaver.

“Is such a thing possible?” he asked instead. For all that he was no longer a mere mortal, it seemed almost sacrilegious of him to request an audience with one of the Valar themselves.

Dís gave a small shrug. “There is only one way to know.” She turned them back away from the wall and cut back across the center of the space towards the front gates. 

“We’re going now?” Thorin asked alarmed.

“Is there some better time?” 

Thorin supposed that there wasn’t but that did not make the idea of imposing on Mandos’ wife without notice any easier to contemplate.

“Do Dwarves often show up unannounced requesting audiences?”

Dís snorted. “Kíli seems to have no misgivings in visiting the Smith. Surely, you have no less courage?”

Thorin’s thoughts ground to a halt again at the image of his nephew pestering Aulë. He could not possibly imagine what Kíli thought could be so important as to warrant the singular attention of their Father and his sister’s pitying look kept him from asking. Whatever the answer was, it most likely would not sit well with him. So, instead he held his tongue and allowed her to guide them. As they drew near to the gates, Dís steered them both off into a small passageway that Thorin couldn’t ever remember seeing. The hallway beyond was awesome enough to steal his breath away.

The inner wall to their left was a delicate lattice work of stone carved with such skill as to allow light and air to pass through the space into the area beyond. It must have been the work of countless master masons over eons to create something so intricate and delicate. But for all it’s beauty it paled in comparison to the outer wall. To his right, the wall that traced the contour of the mountain had been shaved down to such an impossible width that the light of the outside world shone through, transforming the wall into a curtain of variegated stone-light.

Thorin could not help but reach out to trace his fingers along the cool stone as they passed. He had never seen it's like in all the world. The smug smile on his sister’s face showed that she knew full well the wonder that had griped him.

“The boys wish to speak with you still.” She said, steering the conversation to another painful subject, perhaps hoping to surprise an answer from him while he was distracted.

Thorin pulled his mind back to his sister and their path. “How are they?” he asked in return. They had had that argument many times before. His reasons for avoiding the rest of the family stood, no matter how pointless his sister deemed them.

Dís tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Well, as always. Fíli has started on another oration. My son, the philosopher.” The fond exasperation in her voice was achingly familiar. “And Kíli has taken up with a new master, again. He still maintains that if he devotes a century to each craft hall he can master them all before the next age.”

“There is nothing wrong with honest ambition.”

Dis snorted again but whatever rejoinder she had been prepared to give was delayed by their arrival at a pair of silver doors. One door stood slightly ajar in invitation.

Dís laughed softly. “Well I guess that answers the question of whether or not she will see you.” She turned to him and pressed a warm kiss to his cheek. “Off you go then.”

Thorin drew her in a close embrace, hand tucked beneath her long hair at the nape of her neck and foreheads pressed fiercely together. “Thank you, nan'ith. As always you know just what council I require no matter how my words fail me.”

Dís huffed softly in pleasure and comfort both. “My pleasure, brother mine.” She gave his arm a quick squeeze then pulled back to set herself to rights, gathering her hair in a loose curl over one shoulder and brushing away some imaginary lint. With a cheeky grin, she reached up to tug sharply on a strand of Thorin’s hair. “Don’t think that this counts as a visit though. We hardly got to speak at all and I’ve not forgotten about your Hobbit. I expect to hear more about the mysterious Mr. Baggins next time.”

Thorin dutifully nodded although he couldn’t imagine exactly what she wanted of him. It wasn’t like she would find a description of the pastries from afternoon tea interesting. But she seemed satisfied with his agreement and hurried off back down the passageway with a last smile. Thorin took a deep breath to steady himself and then entered the open doorway.

“Hello?” His voice seemed overly loud in the small space revealed beyond the door. 

The room was crowded and homey in a way that reminded him of Bilbo’s house. Comfortable chairs were scattered about and there were broad windows set in the far wall that looked out onto the golden plain. Drawn to the light, Thorin stepped closer and to his surprise, he saw Murdêl grazing peacefully just beyond the glass. 

Shaking his head at the oddness of it, he turned back to the room, looking again for some sign of its inhabitant. The room was small enough that he could see it all from where he stood and there didn’t appear to be any more to the rooms than what he could immediately see. Just the door he’d come through, now closed, and the large glass windows that had been hinged to lead out to the meadow.

Frustrated, Thorin tried again.

“I have come to see the Weaver,” he called out loudly. Dís had seemed certain that the open door had been an invitation but now, he wondered if the sitting room had just been left empty and the door ajar by accident. It seemed that the Vala did not wish to speak with him after all.

Huffing to himself, Thorin turned about a second time, looking for anything, when a small bit of movement from the far corner of the room caught his eye. Curious, he stepped closer and found a wooden door partially obscured by a hanging curtain. For a brief moment he debated the wisdom of snooping before reaching forward and testing the lock. He had come to speak with the Weaver and it would be foolish to leave without exhausting all his options. 

The door opened on silent hinges into another larger space. Thorin took one step in and came to an stumbling halt.

The adjoining room was impossible in the literal sense of the word. In one blink of the eye, it was a cozy workshop and in the next, it was an echoing cavern. Taking up a small, defined space in the workshop was a tapestry on a loom but as the room shifted, the cloth expanded to blanket the walls of the cavern from floor to unreachable ceiling. The two rooms seemed to exist both in addition to, and in spite of, each other and Thorin was forced to shield his eyes as his mind fought to reconcile the competing realities. 

Something about the room called to him however and, in spite of his discomfort, he cautiously edged into the workshop to examine the loom that existed at the center of both spaces. Hung there was a tapestry fashioned into a map of Middle Earth. Like the room, the tapestry was extraordinary, detailed beyond what any single map could ever be including not only landmarks but also histories. Each thread held the entirety of a life and many threads together made up families and peoples and kingdoms. And if Thorin allowed his eyes to be drawn further back along the completed tapestry, he could see the entire history of each people back through the current age and further still.

Confining himself only on the portion of the tapestry still on the loom for his own sanity, he could see that in most places the weave was strong and consistent but here and there, there were small holes in the pattern. On a hunch, he followed the blue line of the Brandywine down from Lake Evendim to the eastern edge of the Shire. Along the banks where the river meandered through a lazy loop a delicate thread of summer yellow abruptly fell out of the pattern leaving a tiny hole in the weave; the Hobbit Thorin had collected this very morning. In the Barrow Downs was another skip in the weave but as he following the East-West Road into the lowlands and up to the High Pass, the pattern changed. Rather than a dropped stitch in the weave, these holes seemed to be burned into the tapestry, as if the loom had been set too close to a fire and the floating embers had scattered across the world.

Glancing over the entire map, he could see those burned threads spread across the tapestry from edge to edge. The only space on the map that seemed to have avoided the scorch marks was the green Shire where threads were woven strong and true with Hobbits and fauntlings and their extended families. Out of curiosity, he followed the rolling hills until he found Bilbo’s home. Two threads were woven deep into the hill, twined together as two then splitting into three before they abruptly ended in a thick decorative knot. 

Bilbo’s thread, for so it must be, continued to spool out alone from the knot moving back and forth across the Shire, into Bree, and once so far as Rivendell and the Misty Mountains, weaving in with Hobbits and Men and Elves and even the shiny silver thread of a Wizard now and then. The silver thread itself traveled back and forth across the map so many times that it seemed more to serve as a framework for the weave then a part of the pattern itself but it too eventually ended, leaving a small hole in the house beneath the hill.

Oddly enough, Thorin could see no trace of his own thread but he left the mystery of that for the moment and instead caught on a strange warping of the weave around Bilbo’s home. To Thorin’s untrained eye, it looked as if the weave had been pulled too tight in places and too loose in others, creating a rippling weight to the space around the Shire that wasn’t present anywhere else.

Confused, Thorin reached out a single finger to run along the raised ridge and suddenly a rumbling whisper filled his ears. The words were low and dark and he found himself both struggling to understand their meaning and shuddering away from it. With each moment he listened, the words seemed to sink sharp hooks into his mind bringing him closer to a foul truth. With a guttural cry, he wrenched himself away from the cloth and found himself falling onto the cool floor of the workshop.

Panting heavily, Thorin staggered to his feet and backed away from the tapestry. What before had been a wonder now took on a darker cast and he suddenly had no further desire to study it. A cool breeze pulled at him and he turned instead to see the wooden door standing open again. A glance back at the workroom showed the loom had moved to the far edge of the room, suddenly far out of reach. His audience, as it were, was obviously over, and Thorin found himself thankful to leave. He wasn’t sure what he’d seen or what it might mean but it was something to think on later when his mind was less full of the history of Middle Earth and the strange, dark voice.

He made his way quickly into the adjoining room, still empty, and crossed directly to the windowed wall. The hinged windows opened easily beneath his hands. With one hand on the glass, Thorin paused briefly. A soft puff of air travelling in entirely the wrong direction lifted a strand of his hair up and over his shoulder.

“Thank you, my Lady,” he spoke softly, sure that even though he could not see her, he was far from alone. Then he pushed through the portal and was gone from the strange place.


	4. The Great Fair

The days that followed continued on as they ever did with Thorin collecting souls and taking time between to sleep and eat. Only now he found himself wondering at every stop if this death was simply a space in the weave or one of the strange, burned holes. Often circumstances just felt wrong but nothing overt seemed to give evidence of one or the other. Now, though, he knew for certain that the Wizard had been right and something dark was at work in Middle Earth.

When he had time to himself, he also on occasion found himself thinking of Bilbo’s bright thread and how it had criss-crossed the Shire and meandered further still. He wondered if Bilbo still traveled so far these days and where those travels might take him. And occasionally his mind picked at the memory of the rippling pattern of the tapestry.

With his thoughts so fully occupied, it was Murdêl who ensured that he made it to each appointment with very little direction from Thorin. So it was no one’s fault except his own when he didn’t notice Murdêl turn them down a packed dirt lane bordered with decorative flowers and equally decorative fences.

  
Thorin Arrives at Bad End Art by [kironomi](http://bracari-iris.tumblr.com/) and [Teaxdragon](http://teaxdragon.tumblr.com/)  


“Good day, Thorin!”

Thorin was startled from his musing by the call of one Bilbo Baggins. Not artificially amplified by his spelled ruby this time but rather right next to his boot. Looking around sharply, he spied the Hobbit, in the flesh, smiling up at him from just behind his front gate.

“Good day, Master Baggins.” His reply was all politeness but the dark look he aimed at the back of the ram’s head was anything but.

“I’m sorry if you’ve come for tea. I was just heading out for a bit of a walking holiday.” 

Thorin refocused on Bilbo and this time took active notice of his coat, walking stick, and small pack. “A holiday?” he asked confused. Unless he had lost track of the months, it was time for neither the spring nor harvest festivals observed by farming communities. And the winter festivals were still half a year away.

Bilbo shooed Murdêl back from the gate with a flap of his hands and to Thorin’s surprise, he gamely reversed several steps backwards. Bilbo came through the gate and closed it smartly behind. Giving Thorin a cheeky grin, he took a few steps down the lane closer to a neighbor’s yard and plucked a couple green apples from a low hanging bough. He pocketed two and immediately offered a third to Murdêl on a flat palm. The ram swiped it up flick of his thick tongue and took a step closer to push his head into Bilbo’s hands as he chewed.

“What’s his name,” Bilbo asked with a bemused smile. He reached out and began to cautiously scratch and pet the great ram.

“Murdêl.” Thorin offered, thoroughly puzzled by the ram’s docile behavior. Thorin couldn’t remember the last time anyone except him had approached Murdêl, let alone offered some affection, but war rams, as a rule, did not conduct themselves as if they were pets to be pampered.

“Well that sounds appropriately majestic for Death’s steed,” Bilbo murmured. 

The name was actually a variant on death in his native tongue - death of all deaths. Thorin had been understandably morbid the day they’d first met and it wasn’t as if the ram had provided his own name. There was no need to share that with Bilbo, though. Better to allow him his misplaced admiration of Thorin’s naming abilities.

Murdêl seemed to be entirely enamoured with the Hobbit as he canted his head lower to allow Bilbo to scratch at the base of his great curving horns, a spot that frequently seemed to itch yet was equally hard to reach. Thorin loosened his grip on the reins just in time to avoid losing them all together. Slightly irked, he cleared his throat loudly, drawing Bilbo’s attention back to him. 

“A holiday, Master Baggins?” The question came out a bit more quarrelsome than he had intended but Bilbo’s pleased smile didn’t change.

“Yes, to Bree. High summer is in a few days and there’s always a bit of a fair with stalls from travelling merchants.” He stepped back from the ram and shifted his pack on his back to settle it more comfortably.

“If you’d like to head in that direction, I’d be happy for the company this morning,” he offered as he rocked on his heels with thumbs hooked behind the pack’s straps.

Thorin wasn’t sure what fancy had taken him but he found himself offering a different destination instead. “If you’re interested in a summer fair there is one on the Rhovanion plains that is renowned across Middle Earth.”

Bilbo hummed and nodded, “Yes, I’ve heard of it. But it’s a bit far for a walking holiday, so I’m afraid we’ll have to settle for Bree.” He spun around once to check his gate and his door then with a satisfied nod, turned and started off down the path. Murdêl trotted after him with no direction from Thorin, easily matching the Hobbit’s jaunty step.

Thorin’s mouth tugged up into a small smirk. “On the contrary, Master Baggins. Nothing on Middle Earth is beyond the reach of Death.”

Nudging Murdêl forward with boots and knees, Thorin drew along side him, leaned over, and grasped Bilbo by the collar of his summer coat. With a heave, he pulled the Hobbit up onto the ram’s back and settled him in the saddle before him. Bilbo flailed for a moment but Murdêl was already rushing forward and the world bent around them. 

Bilbo let out an undignified squawk and dug his fingers deep into the ram’s coat. His feet knocked painfully into Thorin’s shins as he shifted forward causing Thorin to bite down on a yelp. Thorin tightened his arms to stop the squirming Hobbit, squashing his pack painfully between them, and held on for the ride.

The Hobbit was startlingly docile for the remainder of the trip but as soon as the ram came to a stop, he was scrambling off with limbs swinging wildly. Thorin tried to help but all he got for his troubles was a hearty push that had him toppling over onto the ground on the other side of the ram. Murdêl danced away with a snort and trotted off beyond the field of battle.

“You great oaf!” Bilbo fumed at him. “What in the Green Fields was that?!”

Thorin picked himself up carefully from the ground, resettling his sword and ensuring his cloaked hung back off his shoulders. It wouldn’t do to disrupt the fair with the spectre of Death or an odd little Hobbit holding conversations with no one at all.

“I invited you to the Great Fair,” he offered with feigned confusion as he set himself to rights. 

Bilbo clenched his fists and drew himself to his full height. He was not quite as tall as Thorin and certainly not as broad but that didn’t stop him from pushing aggressively into Thorin’s space. A quiver of anger went through his frame as he squared off against Thorin. “You can’t snatch respectable Hobbits from the path and barrel off into the wilds with them! What will my neighbors think? And that’s not even to mention the idiocy of offering to attend a fair half way across Middle Earth!”

He was oddly compelling in his anger and Thorin found himself smiling at the sight. His amusement just seemed to incense the Hobbit further turning his ears and cheeks a ruddy color. As entertaining as it may have been to watch the Hobbit rant, Thorin took pity on him and stepped to the side allowing Bilbo to see rightly see the space beyond him. Bilbo was brought up short by the sight revealed.

Murdêl had left them on a small rise in the great plains and spread below them were rows upon rows of brightly colored tents laid out in a sprawled spiderweb of streets, a makeshift market to rival any one of the bustling cities of Middle Earth. Thorin swept low and executed the most courtly of bows with arms outstretched as if to encompass the whole of the plain.

“Welcome to the Great Fair, Master Baggins.”

Bilbo flapped his mouth soundlessly for a few moments then he harrumphed and tugged his weskit straight by the bottom hem once before marching off without another word. Thorin kept pace with him silently, waiting and watching and enjoying Bilbo’s expression of stunned delight as they passed the perimeter markers and were swallowed into the fair proper.

The outskirts of the fair was devoted to animal merchants. Most of the tents here were just small awnings built into the side of larger paddocks to provide a bit of shade for the merchants and buyers who haggled with them. The peoples and animals here were distributed without care for race or breed. Within a short distance they passed a Man exercising high necked horses under the assessing gaze of potential customers, a farmer selling off excess livestock, and even a Dwarf offering what appeared to be a selection of culls from a drove of piglets.

“What in the Valar’s name are those?” Bilbo asked in a surprised voice, finally breaking his silence. Thorin followed Bilbo’s shocked gaze to a picket line of oddly shaped animals.

“Those are ulun, sandwalkers from the far south. They can go great distances without food thanks to the fat they store in their hunched backs.”

Bilbo stared at the line of animals, fascinated. “I read about them once in book of children’s rhymes - ships of the sands - but I thought they were just a bit of author’s imagining.”

Thorin shook his head, bemused. “No, they are very real. Here, come closer.”

Thorin drew Bilbo over to the merchant and offered a small copper coin. “May we?” he politely asked. The tall Man flashed his teeth in a bright smile, pocketed the coin, and led them to the closest animal. He spoke softly to the odd creature as he drew its head down with gentle pressure on its halter. “Just here, good sirs,” he offered, placing a hand on the animal’s neck.

Bilbo rose up on his toes with one hand outstretched to lay on the sandy colored coat of the ulun. A surprised breath escaped him in a happy chuff as his palm made contact. “It’s just like a deer’s winter coat!”

“Yes, nearly,” Thorin agreed placing his own hand along side the ridge of the animal’s neck. “Although I have heard they are more like wild cattle in temperament. They are far from timid and may bite if provoked.”

Bilbo watched the animal warily but he didn’t withdraw. Instead he drew his hand further along the animal’s side until he was patting the thick hump on its back in wonder. 

“For a small fee more, I would gladly saddle him and allow the small sir a short ride,” the merchant angled for a further coin. But Bilbo immediately stepped back out of reach, both hands up with palms out as if to ward off the very idea of it.

“No. Thank you but no. My feet shall remain firmly on the ground, thank you.”

Thorin nodded in thanks to the merchant and turned away from the animals to continue on into the fair. Bilbo allowed himself to be drawn away but glanced back several times as if to remind himself that the animal was truly there.

“Imagine!” he crowed softly to himself. “No one will ever believe me, of course, but imagine!”

“Why would no one believe you?” Thorin asked as they navigated the pathway between the stalls that had replaced the paddocks. He hadn’t known the Hobbit for very long but nothing about him struck Thorin as dishonest.

Bilbo gave him a self deprecating grin. “I’m known as a bit of an eccentric, you know. Living alone and traveling so much. I once travelled as far as the Misty Mountains and visited with the Elves of the Last Homely House!” Here he looked nothing but pleased with what to him, and for any Hobbit really, must be an astoundingly well travelled life. 

“But no respectable Hobbit would ever believe I had met a sandwalker during those travels,” he continued. “And, it’s not as if I can tell them I saw one at the Great Fair, now can I?” His face briefly took on a melancholy cast but it cleared quickly. “But I shall know that I once stood beside one and felt its sides bell with it’s living breath! And the fauntlings will love the story, even if they think it a fantastical tale.”

Thorin tried to imagine Bilbo, perhaps sitting on his bench, with a gaggle of curly haired youth hanging on his every word. Telling not only tales of sandwalkers but perhaps, for the more adventurous ones, tales of war rams and riding across the Misty Mountains all the way west to the Great Fair with Death. It was a surprisingly pleasing thought that Bilbo might share his story and that this tale of Death might inspire joy rather than fear.

Unexpectedly, Bilbo reversed the grip between them and tugged Thorin over to a brightly painted stall. The cloying scent of sugar hit Thorin’s nose telling him Bilbo’d found one of the many sweets merchants even before his eyes adjusted to the cool shade of the shop to reveal the wares.

“It’s odd, though,” Bilbo mused, eyeing Thorin critically for a moment before turning to peruse the offerings. He left the statement hanging between them as he devoted his full attention to a display of small, brightly colored biscuits made of stiff meringue with a sandwiched filling of sweet icing or nut paste.

Thorin patiently waited both for him to make his selection and to work up to his question. If the ages had taught him nothing else, it was patience in the face of nosey relatives, or in this case, Hobbits.

At Bilbo’s direction, the merchant gladly boxed up a selection of biscuits with some pulled sugar animals for a few coins from Bilbo’s purse. A couple biscuits were kept in reserve and handed to Bilbo wrapped in a small bit of waxed paper. Bilbo offered a loose biscuit to Thorin and ate one himself as they left the stall behind.

“It seemed very calm with you standing next to it,” he finally offered apropos of nothing.

Thorin tilted his head in question as he finished off the treat. The meringue melted pleasantly in his mouth leaving him with just the sharp taste of almond paste sweetened by vanished sugar. It wasn’t the first time he’d had one of these biscuits but they were definitely a rare indulgence.

“The ulun and all the other animals for that matter. Most tales say animals can sense Death and avoid it.” Bilbo tilted his head and lifted a finger to emphasize his correction. “Him.”

Thorin shrugged steering Bilbo around a knot of young Men speaking loudly about something or other. It looked like a fight might be in the making but a hired guard stood close by with his gaze firmly centered on the group. Thorin hurried them on still; Men too often forgot that there were smaller people in the world.

“I have never found it to be so but then again, I don’t collect the souls of animals.” Maybe animals did not need Death’s services or maybe another assisted them. Either way, Thorin had never attended the death of an animal. “Perhaps they know I offer no threat.” 

“I suppose,” Bilbo conceded looking thoughtful. At the next intersection, an awning hung with fabrics of every color caught Bilbo’s eye. He took the lead, nimbly dodging other attendees as he made a beeline through the crowd to the merchant’s stall.

“Not that I condone your high-handedness, of course.” Here Bilbo paused to eye him critically as if to ensure Thorin was still appropriately contrite about the earlier matter. “But Murdêl is quite the animal. Not at all anything like the bouncing that a pony can give you.” 

Thorin barked out a quick laugh at the suggestive turn of phrase but quickly schooled his face to an overly serious expression of contrition in response to Bilbo’s narrow eyed gaze. Bilbo shook his head and turned back to angle between two other customers and reach the fabrics on display.

Thorin let him look, content to stand by and watch and occasionally offer his opinion. Most of the items were innocuous enough but he had to shake his head firmly once when Bilbo held up a truly atrocious bit of cloth. It was patterned with large red flowers on a bright yellow background; a pattern so bold, Thorin privately thought, that not even the most spirited of Hobbits could pull it off. Bilbo sighed and folded the sample back down and laid it back on the shelf with a curious little pat, as if consoling himself - or perhaps the fabric - on the choice to not purchase it.

“Did you train him yourself then?” he continued as he flipped through more cloth samples with decisive flicks of his wrist. Nothing else seemed to satisfy him so they left the stall without making a purchase.

“Murdêl came with the office. In truth it was the other way round; he trained me. He has been my companion from the first day.” 

“How odd. You said the previous Death was an Elf, if I remember correctly? I can’t imagine they rode Murdêl.” 

Thorin thought again of his dying moments and watching the Elf approach through the haze of battle rage. He had stood tall and unconcerned, striding through the unending waves of Orcs as if walking through an empty field. 

“He approached on foot, unprotected and unconcerned about the matter.” 

He hadn’t even have the sense to be wearing armor let alone riding a steed to keep him from the immediate reach of the Orcs. Thorin had already been pierced through with sword and pike and had been so surprised by the impossible sight of an Elf walking through the battle field in nothing but lightweight clothes, hair floating free for any enemy to grab, that he hadn’t even registered the danger until the Elf had come within striking distance.

The hand on his forearm tightened suddenly, pulling Thorin back to the present. Looking at Bilbo, he noted that the Hobbit's countenance had suddenly taken on a sickly tone.

“What?” Thorin asked wondering if it was something the Hobbit had eaten earlier or the talk of his death that had affected the Hobbit’s constitution. It certainly wasn’t the most socially acceptable of conversational topics. And all together strange both that it had come up and that Thorin had allowed it to progress this far.

“What if it had been an Orc?”

Thorin blinked, not following. Bilbo snapped his fingers impatiently waiting for Thorin to make the connection. “Now, and once before, you said he was unprotected, or careless, and you slew him to become Death. But what if it had been an Orc that had killed him before he even reached you?”

A shiver raced down Thorin’s spine. There was merit to the Hobbit’s question. The Elf must have passed through half an army to reach Thorin, any of whom might have struck him down.

“By the grace of the Father’s,” he whispered with a quick gesture to ward off fate. Bilbo solemnly nodded in agreement while his own fingers sketched out a similar prayer.

Here the conversation seemed to die and they walked on silently together for a time lost in their thoughts. It was the sound of his own language that later recalled him to his surroundings. In their wandering, they had entered the portion of the fair devoted to metal crafts and now more Dwarves than Men surrounded them. Bilbo was again looking around with wide eyes, but for every stall or merchant or craft that caught his eye, his gaze slid back to Thorin consideringly.

The next time Bilbo’s eyes caught his, he raised a brow in silent inquiry. Bilbo smiled wryly and asked in a low voice so as not to be overheard, “Will they recognize you?”

Thorin looked around them at the mix of Dwarves from clans near and far: Stiffbeards, Stonefoots, Ironfists, and yes, a fair number of Longbeards. Each acknowledged him as kindred in a land not their own, but none did so with any but the most superficial of recognition. 

“It has been almost an age since I lived with my people, Master Baggins. Even the portraits commissioned by my family are long lost.” He had also cut his beard and removed his braids after becoming Death keeping only the clan braid that marked him as a Longbeard. Not that Bilbo would not understand the significance of that should he be inclined to share. “There are none that would recognize my face.”

The Hobbit’s mouth thinned and he gave Thorin’s forearm a few pats as if he were comforting a close friend or family member. Thorin wondered if he should step away and put some space between them, or if it would give some sort of offense to his companion. It wasn’t that he begrudged the Hobbit his sentiment but it felt overly affectionate in some ways. Thorin was self aware enough to know that this discomfort was more a result of his extended solitude than an objection to the Hobbit’s sentiments but it unsettled him nonetheless.

Before he could work it out to his satisfaction, Bilbo made a pleased little noise and veered off to another stall leaving him alone once more. It seemed that a toy maker’s shop had enticed him in with a small display of moving toys. As soon as the Hobbit released him, Thorin felt the absence of his presence in strange counterpoint to his earlier unease at his closeness. Steadfastly ignoring his conflicted thoughts, Thorin followed. This was a shop he could at least find interest in.

“Oh,” Bilbo marvelled at one of the items on display, a small pony hitched to a wagon. With a push of his finger, the pony tilted back and forth, walking stiffly on fused legs across the countertop, pulling his little toy cart behind him.

“Frodo would love this.”

“Who?” Thorin asked. Bilbo had on occasion mentioned other Hobbits but he couldn’t recall hearing that name before.

“Hmm,” Bilbo nodded as he picked up the toy. He rotated one of the cart wheels and traced a finger along the muzzle of the pony. “My nephew. Or cousin really. Second cousin, once removed to be precise but that just gets too confusing, doesn’t it?”

Thorin privately agreed it was a bit of a mouthful but Bilbo continued on without waiting. “He’s still a fauntling and would love something like this.”

Thorin leaned close to look at the small toy as the Dwarf merchant looked on, clearly torn between extolling the merits of his work and not intruding on their conversation. The toy was well-made if a bit crude by Thorin’s standards.

“It is not as finely engineered as some may be but it should stand up well to a youngling’s play.”

The Dwarf merchant inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment of the honest appraisal. “I can certainly offer you a fair price, Master Hobbit,” he spoke to Bilbo. Thorin was pleased at the diplomacy of the Dwarf, smartly identifying his client and being deft enough in his address to not accidentally offend.

“I think, yes.”

The little toy was eventually wrapped in paper and added to Bilbo’s growing pile of packages. Settling the items more comfortably in his arms, Bilbo looked up at the sun high in the sky and asked, “Perhaps a bite to eat?”

Thorin nodded back agreeably. It seemed as if the Hobbit had sampled some of every food cart they had passed already, but an actual meal would be welcome.

“Unless you’re on a schedule?” The Hobbit was obviously only asking out of politeness rather than morbid curiosity considering he was already reviewing the food options within sight.

“While the Weaver sets the pattern, I do have some forgiveness in the timing. My schedule will just be a bit full the next time I take up my duties.” This seemed to satisfy Bilbo as he launched negotiations on where they would eat.

In the end, they stopped at a tea shop for Bilbo and then a makeshift tavern to purchase a mug of ale for Thorin. They decided not to sit and instead purchased hot sandwiches of rich meat and gravy baked into folded bread pockets perfect for eating while walking as the Hobbit seemed determined to try and see the whole of the fair in a single afternoon. Nothing else tempted Bilbo to spend his coin but they stopped often enough to browse the wares on display. The sun had almost fully set by the time Thorin turned their path back towards the edges of the fair.

Bilbo followed after but cast more than a few wistful looks at the tents and merchants trying to make one last sale before the supper hour. As they passed the animal merchants again,, Murdêl appeared in the distance uncalled for. Bilbo snorted softly and they reoriented on the ram.

“With Murdêl, can you truly travel anywhere in Middle Earth?” he asked. Away from the busyness of the fair, the world seemed suddenly much subdued. The only sound now was their footfalls muffled by the grass and the noise of insects coming out for the night. Around them the hot scent of afternoon warmed summer grass was fading away.

Thorin folded his hands behind him as they walked. “Yes. It is part of my duties to be where I must, when I must.”

Bilbo nodded absently. The topic didn’t appear to be exhausted though. He opened his mouth several times as if to continue but no question issued forth.

“Ask,” Thorin commanded softly. At this point there was no point in dissembling. Bilbo already knew more than any other living mortal about the going-ons of Death.

His lips thinned for a moment but this time he voiced the question that was obviously troubling him. “And the Undying Lands or further still to Valinor and the after? I suppose you must be able to travel there as well. See your charges off and perhaps speak to those that have already gone?” The Hobbit’s voice trailed off into a soft questioning tone.

A deep ache opened in the pit of Thorin’s stomach. If only it were that easy.

“No.” His voice was gruff enough to startle Bilbo into taking a step away from him. 

He could clearly see where this was going and he in no way wanted to provide Bilbo with false hope. Whoever Bilbo had lost, parent’s most likely considering the twined threads he’d seen on the Weaver’s loom, Thorin could not reach them for him. His key only allowed him access to the Smith’s Halls; nowhere else could he roam.

“No,” he continued more softly. “I am no more welcome there than you.”

Bilbo was silent and they travelled the remaining distance with no further words. Murdêl trotted up to them but Bilbo seemed strangely reluctant to leave. He turned back to the fair and Thorin found himself standing staring back out into the plain with the great ram on one side and Bilbo on the other. Scattered among the tents, small fires were being lit to prepare meals and ward off the night. In the deepening dusk, it looked like the stars appearing in the sky had been mirrored upon the plains.

“But you’re Death,” Bilbo said softly.

Thorin nodded. “And Death’s dominion is Middle Earth, whereas only the Valar hold sway in Valinor and the afterlife.”

“Oh.” The soft sound was thick with shared grief and compassion. “So, it was goodbye for you as well, then?”

Thorin physically flinched from the shockingly candid question. He reached out blindly for the bulk of Murdêl and buried his fingers in his warmth, grounding himself before he replied. “The battle that claimed my life claimed the lives of many more, including my sister-sons.”

In the gloom, Thorin found it surprisingly easy to continue. “The first soulstones I collected as Death were theirs.” 

In the heat of battle it wasn’t about which army won or which lost but about who lived and who died. Thorin had died, except he hadn’t. The Elf hadn’t even had the decency to explain what was happening before he’d been gone, leaving Thorin with an empty cloak, a pile of jewelry and a small incandescent soulstone. Death is dead, long live death.

In a daze, with no better idea of what to do, Thorin had gone to search for his kin. He’d stumbled through the slog of mud and blood until he’d found Fíli and Kíli collapsed together beneath an onslaught of Orcs.

“Do you know what it means to refuse to fulfill the duties of Death?” Thorin studiously looked away from Bilbo but he could feel the Hobbit’s eyes on him nonetheless. Bilbo made a small negative sound.

“It means that no one can die. No one at all. They just linger, waiting for a release that never comes.”

Tharkûn had found him grieving over his nephews, trying desperately to hold in their life’s blood as he commanded that they not die; and they had been trying their best to obey him. The Wizard had pulled him from his knees and away from them, shaken him roughly, and forced him to see what was truly happening and his responsibility for it.

“In the end I had no choice. It was only later that I realized that I could not follow them.” His despair at that discovery had been black indeed. For a second time he had refused to serve as Death and again Tharkûn had come to reason with him. This time, though, he had brought Thorin a gift, a small silver key that fit the gate to the Hall’s of Waiting. A favor granted for a favor owed. Thorin had never once regretted the deal.

A small hand wrapped around his wrist and squeezed lightly. Thorin looked over to see Bilbo staring at him. In the evening light, his eyes gleamed suspiciously damp but he offer no words of pity or sympathy. He just held on tightly and Thorin let him.

It was Murdêl that finally broke the moment, snuffling at Bilbo’s packages in search of a sweet. Biblo pushed the great ram’s head away with a slightly wet laugh.

“Nothing there for you, I’m sorry to say.”

Thorin held his hand out for the packages and stored them carefully away in a pair of conveniently manifested saddlebags when Bilbo passed them over. He also took the time to take Bilbo’s pack and secure it behind the saddle for the return journey.

“To Bree, Master Hobbit?” he asked as he swung himself up onto Murdêl’s back. This time Bilbo gamely offered his hand to be pulled up in front of Thorin.

“No. I think not. I’m afraid the summer fair would quite pale in comparison to today’s adventure. Just home, if you don’t mind, Murdêl.”

Murdêl snorted once and bobbed his head. Bilbo took a firm grip on the pommel as the ram started to trot off down across the plains but allowed himself to relax back into Thorin. An insidious warmth crept up Thorin’s neck both at the Hobbit’s evident satisfaction with their day and the trust he placed in Thorin to see him home safely.

“At your service,” he responded softly as Murdêl carried them off into the night.


	5. Battle of Bag End

They arrived back in the Shire just as the moon was rising on that part of the world. With the twinkling lights peeking through windows in the rolling hills and the cloudless sky above, it almost seemed to Thorin as if they’d come back full circle to the Great Fair and the starlit plain.

Thorin dismounted first on the top of Bilbo’s hill and turned to offer Bilbo a hand down. Bilbo had just slipped his hand into Thorin’s when an preternaturally high pitched scream rent the air. The night seemed to freeze a surely as if Thorin had stopped time himself. Then the tense silence broke as across the Shire there was the sudden sound of hounds baying and animals lowing in fear. Lights flickered on in windows and he could distinctly hear the sharp clap of windows being slammed closed from several directions.

Thorin dropped Bilbo’s hand and went for his sword. It came free from it’s scabbard with a hungry sound. Murdêl snorted and gave a great shake of his shoulders and heavy, metal-studded plates layered across his hide from snout to tail in a wave. Bilbo flailed momentarily at being swept up in the great ram’s magics but quickly found his balance once more as the armor settled. Thorin held up his free hand to stop Bilbo from clamoring down.

“Stay.” Thorin gave hushed, quick instructions. “Murdêl can best protect you if you remain mounted. If you fall, find what shelter you can and beware his hooves.” A second and third scream echoed in the night air. The night seemed to deepen as lights went out across the hills and Hobbits rightly sought shelter.

Thorin turned his back on Bilbo, trusting Murdêl to both guard him and Thorin’s back. He pulled his cloak fully closed and drew his hood. Bilbo’s muffled gasp greeted the spectre of Death. Thorin could only hope their unexpected company was equally impressed.

Ascending past the curve of Bilbo’s hill appeared a dark rider - a Wraith perched on a foam flecked black stallion with rolling eyes. In its wake a second and a third appeared followed by more. They circled the crown of the Hill, trapping Thorin and Murdêl in the center of a ring of nine.

“Nazgûl,” Thorin growled. He had never had cause to seek out the Ringwraiths but he had seen them from time to time as he performed his duties. Like the barrow-wights they tended to prey on the souls of the dying. Always before they had given each other a wide berth and Thorin was at a loss to understand why that had suddenly changed.

Bilbo let out a broken moan behind Thorin’s shoulder as one of the Wraiths raised his gloved hand and pointed at the trio on the hill. He spared half a heartbeat to look back and find Bilbo recoiling with one hand wrapped tightly around the pommel and the other over his heart as if to protect it. Thorin growled, “Courage, Hobbit,” before focusing again on their enemies. It was far from the most rousing of battle speeches, but each warrior must find their own way in the face of battle.

The Ringwraiths closed in and Thorin and Murdêl inched closer together. Thorin motioned subtly to the great ram and together they began to back towards the shelter of the tall oak behind them slowly. It would provide additional cover and reduce the sweep of space they need protect themselves against. The grass was also not quite so high under the shade of the branches, which should allow them to maneuver a bit more easily. The Wraiths stalked them closely but didn’t attack. 

Just as they made it beneath the spreading canopy of the oak, the Wraiths drew to a halt and grew unnaturally still. Murdêl snorted a warning and Thorin pivoted to his left to see what had drawn the ram’s attention.

Over the crest of the hill a tenth rider appeared. Although vaguely Man shaped, there was something wrong to its shape that ensured it would never be mistaken for one of the free people of Middle Earth. Two of the Wraiths reined their mounts sharply apart to create room for the creature in their circle. With a clank of armor, it came to a stop and stared at Thorin for a long moment.

“My Master, Sauron the Great, sends thee greetings, Death.” The creature tilted its head to one side and spread its lips impossibly wide in a smile that was all teeth and raw gums.

“I send no greetings in return,” Thorin growled out. His own magics infused his voice with a deep rumble that sounded like summer thunder on the night air.

The messenger clacked his sharp, silvered teeth twice in anger but turned his attention to Bilbo. The rich scent of earth and broken grass pricked at Thorin’s nose as Murdêl pawed the ground, his heavy hoof dragging a furrow in the earth.

“Bilbo Baggins. My Master requests your presence in the dark lands. You have something of his that he would like returned.”

Bilbo clutched tightly at his vest but his voice was surprisingly steady in reply. “Thank you for the offer but I believe I will have to decline.” It was the most absurdly polite answer Thorin had ever heard, and it made him grin savagely in amusement.

The two closest Wraith screamed in reply. The muscles in Thorin’s arms and thighs jumped with the need to respond but he forced himself to ignore the larger threat to concentrate on the more immediate danger. He leveled his sword towards the messenger. 

“He stays.”

When he had agreed to Tharkûn’s request, he had never imagined he would be defending the Hobbit from Wraiths and dread messengers but he did not regret giving his oath. He did not know what Bilbo had done to draw the the dread gaze of Mordor but he would not abandon him to it.

The messenger sneered. “We shall see, Dwarf. You may be able to protect one halfling, Death, but can you protect them all?” 

His hissed words drew Thorin’s attention to the wider night. Below them lanterns were converging in ones and twos into a line along one of the roads. Beneath the swinging lights, Thorin could just make out rounded shapes armed with hayforks and scythes. He was struck by the entirely inappropriate urge to laugh at his long ago prediction of a Hobbit mob marching on Bilbo’s home come true. In the next moment the cold reality of the situation opened a deep pit of worry in Thorin’s stomach. The Shire might have it’s own protections, as the Wizard had claimed but they had obviously not dissuaded the Nazgul. Were it to come to it, the Hobbits would be quickly slaughtered.

Still it would serve no one to capitulate so easily. He squared his shoulders and spat at the messenger. “You forget with whom you speak, Servant. Only I have authority to grant death!”

The monster laughed in delight. The wrongness of the sound set Thorin’s teeth on edge. “True. Should you command it, none shall die this night. But they can live in agony, can they not?”

Thorin held steady but he had no answer to give. Bilbo’s hand appeared on his shoulder and Thorin was reluctantly forced to glance back, trying to split his attention between the threat ahead and the soft words behind.

“Thorin?” It wasn’t truly even a question. Bilbo knew the answer as well as he; and Thorin would not lie. Considering all he’d shared with Bilbo this day, there was no way he could now even   
dissemble. He could, and would, fight for Bilbo and the Shire, but there was no protection he could offer them against war or suffering.

There was a rattle of armor as Bilbo dismounted. “Bilbo,” he growled half in warning, half in plea.

“This is not a fight we can win tonight, Thorin. Gandalf asked that I have faith. In myself and in you.” He offered Thorin a wry smile as he stepped away. He moved into the open space between Thorin and the Wraiths, planted his feet and stood tall.

“I believe then that I must accept your invitation, after all,” he said mildly, as if accepting an invitation to tea. “I assume you’d like to go now?”

“Bilbo, do not! He makes no promises of safety for the Shire and neither would he keep them if he did,” Thorin argued as he took a step forward. The Hobbit was just out of reach but with a few steps more, Thorin could pull him back within his protection. The closest Wraith moved forward in mirrored steps and Thorin was forced to stop before he brought them all down on Bilbo.

Bilbo turned back to pin him with a heavy look. The deepening dark rendered his face in shadows but Thorin could still make out the determined resolve in his eyes. “Faith, Thorin.” It was an argument and a plea and a command all rolled into something that dug into Thorin’s heart with sharp thorns.

While he was speaking, the messenger was swept up behind Bilbo and drew him onto its mount without warning. Bilbo went stiff but made no protest. He couldn’t mask the flash of fear that crossed his face, though. Thorin had seen that same look on the faces of countless Men, Elves, and even Hobbits. It was fear of death and to see it now, for the first time, on Bilbo’s face filled Thorin with rage.

Thorin growled and sprang at the messenger. He could not harm the rider from his position on the ground but he could hopefully disable its beast before it could carry them far. His aim was true but the animal vaulted the blow with a supernaturally sinuous twist that left nothing but air in the sword’s path. Before he could try again, it cantered down the hill out of reach. 

Thorin cursed and spun around to mount Murdêl but the Wraith were on him before he could gain his seat. His hand slipped from the pommel as the great ram was forced to pivot away. Murdêl swept his horns into one of the charging horses, sending the Wraith mounted on its back tumbling to the ground next to Thorin. Thorin turned to swing his weapon at another, driving it back. But the downed rider was already too close. It reached out with a gauntlet clad hand and tried to sink sharp fingers in Thorin’s shoulder and neck. The hood of Thorin’s cloak deflected the blow with a shriek of metal but it caught in the rider’s fingers and was wrenched sideways to twist painfully about his throat and half obscure his vision.

Fighting for every precious inch of space, Thorin brought his sword up sharply to deliver a ringing blow to the Wraith’s head with the heavy, flat face of his sword guard. His exultant shout was drowned out by the shocked cry from the Wraith as it stumbled back disoriented. Thorin scrambled away, one hand holding tight to his sword and the other pulling at his cloak to relieve the pressure on his neck. His hood fell back to fully reveal his face but he had no time to address it as the Wraith recovered and closed on him once more.

The dark sword was thrust with unnatural speed straight for Thorin’s chest. He let out a heavy grunt as he turned sharply to the left and parried, using the Wraith’s momentum to drive the blow off his right shoulder while aiming his own return swing. The Wraith countered by grabbing his extended wrist and bring his short sword back around towards Thorin. Unable to block it while fighting for control of his sword, Thorin instead brought up his forearm, protected by the trailing edge of his cloak, and used it as a shield against the blow. The fabric deflected the sword but the power behind the strike drove Thorin back again. He staggered but by the grace of the Valar was able to maintain his feet despite the dark and the unfamiliar terrain.

Behind him, he could hear Murdêl snorting and stamping as he used his bulk to keep the the second Wraith at bay. The rest seem content to watch but Thorin was under no illusion that that would last should he gain the upper hand against his opponent. Their best chance lay in possing enough of a threat to cause the dark riders to retreat.

The Wraith before him went for a broad overhand swing and Thorin used the opportunity to come in low and land a slicing strike from armpit to opposite hip. With any mortal enemy, this would have been a killing blow, disabling his opponent and allowing Thorin space to recover. However, the Nazgul didn’t even flinch. Instead it stepped into the blow and drove its shoulder into Thorin’s own knocking him to the ground. Thorin lost his breath in an explosive grunt as his back hit the ground. Before he could roll clear, the Wraith came down on him. With one hand it pinned this sword arm to the ground and with the other it reached towards his now vulnerable face a second time.

Blindly reaching for anything to save himself, Thorin thrust his open palm against the Wraith’s chest and was startled to feel the buried heat of a soulstone. With a wild cry, he closed his hand into a fist and _pulled_. For an endless moment, all Thorin could hear was the thunder of his own heartbeat as the Wraith resisted. 

Death won out.

Something deep within the Wraith gave and suddenly the air was pierced by its shrieking cry. The scream escalated in volume and pitch to a such a degree that Thorin was sure he must go insane and then the Wraith abruptly snapped out of existence. Thorin was left half deaf and dumb with confusion laying alone on the grass beneath the oak tree. 

He dragged his feet beneath him and stared down at his own hand in shock. His fingers uncurled to reveal a small tar stone, pitted and shrunken like limestone eaten away by time. Even as he stared at it, whatever internal structure remained crumbled and the soulstone fell to dust in his hand. Thorin shook his hand in revulsion, scattering the dust to the night air. In all his years as Death, he had never seen such a thing. Although, perhaps this was the fate of all dark things.

Murdêl snorted loudly by his ear, bringing him back to the present and the danger that still surrounded them. Thorin looked up to find the remaining mounted riders standing frozen. Then, as one, they wheeled their mounts and turned to descend on the Shire. They had obviously decided that there was easier prey for them this night than Death himself.

“No!” Thorin shouted reaching blindly out with his hand again. For a single, bright, moment he thought he felt something familiar within his grasp. Under the light of the newly risen moon, the forms of the Nazgul almost seemed to waver. But as he tried to tighten his hold he felt it slip away. The riders solidified once more and there was the sound of pounding hooves as the raced away. 

Thorin turned to sweep up his sword and find Murdêl. “To battle!” he roared as he sprang astride the great ram and turned them towards the closest lanterns. Thorin felt the ram gather himself beneath him then stumble as a blinding pillar of light shot up into the sky from near to Thorin. Thorin threw up a hand to shield his face as Murdêl pranced in place, confused. He watched with watering eyes as the light clung to the heavens for a full ten count then abruptly crashed back to the earth to spread out along the rolling hills. Caught in the onslaught, the charging Ringwraiths were all thrown from their horses.

A tall figure clad entirely in white appeared on the hill with Thorin. “Stand firm, Thorin Deathless,” he roared, “for your duty is not yet done this night!”

Thorin gaped in wonder at the Wizard returned. “Tharkûn?” For it was indeed he, although instead of his customary grey he was clothed in the same brilliant white as the light that now issued from his tall staff.

The Wizard spared him the briefest of smiles before he returned his attention to holding the Wraiths tight in his power.

“Bilbo!” Thorin spat, desperate to get the whole story out in the quickest way possible. “He’s been taken to Mordor!”

The White Wizard nodded. Thorin could see him visibly straining but down the hill the Nazgul were being dragged back towards the summit, foot by hard fought foot. “Bilbo carries the One Ring and Sauron will do anything to get it back. I need not tell you, Thorin, what would happen should he do so.”

Murdêl danced beneath Thorin either eager to be off or disturbed by the turn in conversation. Perhaps both. “The One Ring?” Thorin growled. “Surely, you’re mistaken!” The ring had been lost and all but forgotten. It was beyond belief that it should have made its way into the possession of one Bilbo Baggins.

Tharkûn growled low and glared at Thorin. “There is no time to argue! Go, now, before it is too late!”

Thorin refused to be chivied from the field. This was madness and yet, Bilbo was caught deep within it. “If it truly is the One Ring, what can we possibly do to stop any of this?” he demanded.

The White Wizard struck the ground sharply with his staff. The pillar of light flared as if lightning had struck the earth. 

“You are Death, Thorin. I trust that you will know what to do when the time comes. Now, go!”

Without further direction from Thorin, Murdêl reared and threw himself into the night. Thorin hung on grimly, trying to beat down the fear and anger threatening to eat his mind and come up with some sort of plan. Any plan at all.


	6. Death Be Not Denied

Mordor was nothing but dead ground as far as he could see. The soil was cracked and the red of spilled blood baked into stone. The desolation of the waste spread from horizon to horizon with only two landmarks. In the distance stood a single tower with a smoking mountain framed behind it.

“The tower, Murdêl.” There seemed no better place to begin their search for the Hobbit.

Murdêl’s hooves broke through the thin crust of the ground with each step. A spider’s web of cracks bloomed in the dry soil with each step, racing across the ground in fits and starts. Here and there the soil broke down entirely into fine sand that disappeared into yawning sinkholes. Murdêl was forced to jump each newly created sand trap or risk being swallowed whole.

One fissure revealed a startlingly bright patch of golden, red stones that glinted and hypnotized under the dawning sun. A geyser of hot steam erupted into the air dangerously close, causing them both to startle.

“Slowly,” Thorin cautioned, unsure of where the threat he could feel building was coming from. Murdêl obligingly slowed his pace.

Movement to his right caught his eye and Thorin watched in awe as a long sinuous line of soil traced through the ground as if some monstrous fish were swimming through the heavy clay. He tightened his hold on the reins bringing them to a standstill. The red earth before them started to heave and buckle and from the liquefied sand emerged two leathery wings that end in claws speared into the earth.

Murdêl shied back a few paces before planting his hooves firmly on the shaking ground. A great long neck of red-gold scales arched between the spread wings and sand and stone rained down on the plain as the head of the beast pulled free from the ground to reveal the form of a Dragon. The fire drake gave a violent shake of his skull to dislodge the last of the sand, turning the air around a dim red with dust. Its great maw split to reveal the tips of sharp edged teeth.

“Thieves,” it hissed. “Intruders.”

Murdêl lowered his head to present the beast with his horns and bellowed a challenge. Thorin crouched low between the protection of his great curving horns and drew his sword again as he prepared for a second battle.

The fire drake reared back on on his two hind legs with neck extended to the sky and roared in response. The shockwave of sound raised the hairs along Thorin’s arms. Brandishing his sword, he roared back, echoing Murdêl’s earlier challenge.

The Dragon’s feet came crashing back to the earth and the ground buckled beneath them. Thorin was thrown from Murdêl’s back as they both went tumbling across the sand in opposite directions. The fire drake followed close behind Murdêl, moving with the sinuous grace of a snake, and Thorin was left standing alone on the sidelines of the battle. 

A sweep of the Dragon’s tail knocked Murdêl further afield and again the air was filled with choking dust as the ram scrambled to gain it’s feet and the Dragon beat the earth with wing and tail. Murdêl bellowed again and charged as soon as he got his feet beneath him. Rather than retreating, the drake turned his cheek and swept his head forward to meet the challenge. There was a tremendous crash of bone on scale but it was Murdêl that was sent reeling back.

“Murdêl!” Thorin bellowed. He leveled his sword and ran for them both even as he was unsure what aid he could possibly provide. The ram tried to rise again beneath the onslaught but he was sadly outmatched. Thorin did not know if Murdêl could truly be hurt by the drake but he had no wish to find out.

“Leave me!” he commanded, screaming across the intervening space to ensure that he was heard. The great ram snorted and shook his head as if to free himself from the compulsion to obey. “Leave me!” Thorin command again, bringing all the power of his office to bear. 

Murdêl let out a deep, guttural grumble but sprang away. He galloped the length of two long fields then turned again towards the battle as if daring Thorin to force him further.

It was the best that Thorin would be granted, he supposed. Thorin turned his full attention to the Dragon.

With the ram removed from the field, the fire drake turned his full attention on Thorin. “Who are you?” the worm hissed, lowering his head so that one great eye could stare at Thorin.

Thorin raised his sword to guard against a sudden attack but did not yet strike. “I am he who walks unseen. I am ageless and deathless,” he prevaricated as he frantically scanned the Dragon’s hide for any sign of weakness, any break in its armour that would allow him to land a blow. “And I come to take back that that was stolen.”

The beast coughed a laugh, its fetid breath full of the smell of rot and sour heat. “You stand alone,” it chortled as it stalked forward, its enormous bulk dragging deep canyons in the dry earth. “How shall you challenge me?”

Thorin braced himself for the attack. This was no mortal Man or undead creature. He held no sway over the Dragon but neither would he cower before it. “Come to me, snivelling worm, and we shall see who is left standing.”

The fire drake drew back his lips to sneer in anger. He took in a great breath and Thorin could see his barrel chest expand and begin to glow. “I am fire,” the beast roared punctuating his statement with a superheated stream of flame.

With nowhere to hide, Thorin braced himself and hoped fervently that his cloak would protect him from this as it had everything else this day. The gout of flame bore down on him, stealing the breath from his chest, but as it neared it suddenly curved around and away from him rather than engulfing him, as if the very air before him had solidified into a shield against the fire.

The Dragon screamed in rage and rose to his hind legs to free his arms to deliver a physical blow. Seeing the claws descending on him, Thorin was reminded sharply of once before looking up at an enemy and being helpless to avoid what he knew must be a killing blow. This time though, as sometimes happened, the gift of time and hindsight shifted the memory into something fundamentally new. Where before he had scoffed at the folly of an Elf to walk unprotected through a battle and sneered at the perceived weakness that had led to Death seeking his own demise, now the truth became startlingly clear. 

The Elf had not been unprotected that day; the office of Death was all the protection the wielder ever needed.

As the Dragon’s claws descended, Thorin was suddenly certain, down to the very core of his being, that there was nothing to fear from this foe. Without thought to the impossible mismatching of their strengths, he swung his blade in counterpoint to the Dragon’s blow and knocked the deadly claws aside as if they were no more than a passing fantasy.

“I am Death,” Thorin exalted. 

And no one, not even Death could die without his leave.The sheer hardheadedness that it took to remain blind to this revelation for as long as he had was staggering. He was never going to live it down once his sister discovered it, and discover it she would, because he was most assuredly going to survive this. 

Thorin took two measured steps forward and between the first and the second he was running, charging the Dragon. He laughed wildly at the unmitigated joy to be found in his sudden freedom. The Dragon recoiled in surprise but gamely opened his mouth, ready to rend Thorin in two. Thorin swung his blade again and the blade struck true, gouging a bleeding line into the beast’s waiting snout. The drake reared back in pain. 

“Who are you, to challenge me?” Thorin roared brandishing his sword again.

The Dragon snarled and snapped but his teeth were turned aside each time he reached for Thorin. He tried again with flame, but nothing could touch Death. His tail whipped across the ground but for every step forward that Thorin took, the drake was forced to fall back back. And for every blow he tried to deliver, Thorin landed one of his own. 

“Fly, worm. Fly and be thankful I have other business here today,” Thorin ordered.

In the end, the it was the Dragon, not Death, that was forced to concede the field. With a mighty roar, the fire drake capitulated. He spread his wings wide and took to the sky. The backwash of his wings sent Thorin’s cloak whipping madly in the wind but he stood firm and watched as the fire drake fled north.

Only after it was no more than a small figure on the horizon did Thorin allow himself to breath freely. He took a step back and staggered in sudden reaction to the overflow of adrenaline coursing through his body. A woolly body materialized at his side and he gratefully leaned against his friend for a long moment.

“How long have you been waiting for this day, I wonder?” Thorin asked tiredly. The ram shook his head and eyed Thorin with what appeared to be fond exasperation.

All this time, Thorin had been so focused on the fact that he was not dead, that he had never thought to question whether or not he was still mortal. He had seen the Elf slain and had thereafter relied on the protections of his cloak and the sword that he had carried off the battlefield with him. And until today, no one had challenged his understanding of his world.

Death was not dead; but neither was he mortal. He did not age, he ate and rested only as he chose, and he would not be harmed except by his own leave.

Thorin released his hold on Murdêl and settled back on his heels. With one hand he reached up to his neck and released the clasp of his cloak at his throat. It fell away from his shoulders easily and Thorin took a moment to stare at it in silence before he folded it into a compact bundle and strapped it down behind his saddle. 

For a long moment he stood beneath the unforgiving sun in nothing but his shirtsleeves and trousers and breathed. Finally, Murdêl gently brought his forehead to butt against Thorin’s side and one his sharp tipped horns swung close to Thorin’s unprotected belly. Thorin snorted in amusement and pushed the ram away.

“Let’s go, my friend. We still have a Hobbit to find.”

Murdêl made quick work of the remaining distance to the tower unchallenged. But if Thorin had thought defeating the Dragon had won the day, he was sorely mistaken. Camped at the foot of the tower was an army. Thorin’s approach was quickly noted and the Orcs closest to them rose in a frenzy of animal howls to greet him.

Murdêl came to a natural halt before the leading edge of the army. From his back, Thorin surveyed the amassed hoard. They were all dressed in leather armor and armed with swords and pikes of pitted, grey iron. Although their weapons and armor were laughably substandard, by their size alone, they were a threat to any other army on Middle Earth. If before Thorin was stretched to his limits responding to small burned holes in the weave, this army would set the whole of it aflame.

“What’s this?” a small, hooked nosed Orc spat. “Looks like dinner has come early!” Behind him the Orcs hooted and laughed.

“I love sheeps,” one moaned with a disgusting flick of its tongue.

“And Dwarfs ain’t bad either,” another added. There was the sound of two blade edges sliding together from off in the crowd.

Thorin let them laugh. With a gentle knee, he nudged Murdêl forward. The ram took several deliberate steps, slamming his hooves down with each so their approach sounded with a slow roll of thunder.

“Give way,” he warned.

One Orc with more ambition than brains leapt at them, sword raised. Murdêl caught the creature mid-air on the point of a horn, goring him. With a toss of his head, he threw the Orc back into the crowd where it was swallowed up in a frenzy of its supposed comrades.

“Give way!” Thorin commanded again.

The mass of bodies around them roared and surged forward as one. But rather than draw his sword, Thorin dropped the reins and held his hands out fingers spread-wide. For any mortal this would be a futile gesture but Thorin was no mortal. He cast his mind out like he had on Bilbo’s hill and around him he felt the flickering flames of the Orcs souls. With a sharp gesture, he clenched both hands tight and wrenched them from their hosts. Around him dozens of threads snapped and Orcs fell unmoving to the ground.

The Orcs around him suddenly stopped and stared as Thorin opened his hands and let the pitted pebbles within fall to the red earth. They may not have understood exactly what had happened but the dead lying at their feet spoke loudly enough of the threat Thorin posed.

“You have been warned.” 

Murdêl continued his march forward. The line held for a minute more then broke in a wild tumult of Orcs trying to retreat. In their wake, Murdêl shifted into a canter and rode the wave of chaos deeper into the ranks of the massed army. Twice more Thorin was forced to display his powers but in the end, they were presented with a wide avenue straight to the foot of the tower as Orcs fled into the surrounding plain. He had not significantly reduced their numbers in any sense of the word but he had no further time to spare them; Bilbo had been within these lands far too long already.

With the way cleared, Thorin mounted the steps to the tower and passed through the great broken door. Inside he climbed set after set of stairs, spiraling up to the pinnacle of the tower, almost entirely unchallenged. It appeared as if very few Orcs had remained when presented with the potential entertainment on the field below and what few had remained were easily dispatched. At the top of the tower he finally came to a large circular room with a single inhabitant - Bilbo Baggins.

“Bilbo!” Thorin rushed across the floor to take the Hobbit by the shoulders. The poor Hobbit was curled in on himself, clutching tightly at something. A rush of gratitude swamped Thorin. He wasn’t too late.

“He cannot have it,” Bilbo whispered, his voice raw. With surprising strength, Bilbo twisted in his grip and kicked out. His large foot caught Thorin in the stomach rocking him backwards. The Hobbit skittered away on his hands and knees, making for the closest stone wall.

Thorin let him go. “Bilbo, look at me!” He stood firm in the center of the room, arms held away from his body, hands open. “I am not your enemy. Look at me!”

Bilbo seemed to be having a hard time holding his head up but he sluggishly obeyed. His eyes when they met Thorin’s were wild with fear and pain but still blessedly sane.

“Bilbo” he coaxed taking a slow step forward. “We must leave this place.” At the mention of leaving, a desperate look, a yearning overtook his face. Thorin felt his chest cave in a little at the sight.

“Home?”

Thorin took a chance and moved forward a step but crouched down to Bilbo’s height. “Yes, Master Baggins. Home. But you must rise and we must leave this place now.”

At Thorin’s urging, Bilbo struggled to his feet, his gaze taking on a bit more awareness. “Thorin?”

Relief made him slightly giddy as he reached out to take Bilbo’s arm. “Yes. I’m here. Come along, Mr. Baggins.” He gently maneuvered them over to the steps. 

The descent down the tower was an exercise in patience. For every step Bilbo successfully navigated there was another that would send him stumbling. More times than Thorin could count, he was forced to reel Bilbo in or block him from taking a fall down the shaft. Thankfully, no additional Orcs had returned in the short time Thorin had been in the tower to challenge them. In his heart, Thorin understood that the rescue couldn’t really be that easy but he would not question it as long as the Dark Lord saw fit to allow it.

Murdêl was waiting for them backed up to the front door so that they could mount from the protection of the building awning. Pushing and prodding, he got Bilbo over to Murdêl and began to coax him to mount.

“No, no, no,” Bilbo fretted, backing away from the ram.

“What?” Thorin asked confused. “Bilbo, stop!” He leaned his weight against the Hobbit, hoping to encourage him to move without actually manhandling him again.

Bilbo shook his head and dug his feet in. “We cannot. He’ll just follow me again and we will be back where we started!”

Thorin ground his teeth in irritation. “We’ll go back to my valley. No one may enter there except by my leave. You’ll be safe there until we can determine what to do next.”

But Bilbo was emphatically shaking his head. “But what about the rest? Shall they all suffer while I hide behind your protection?”

“Be sensible, Bilbo!” Thorin growled, running a rough hand through his hair. This was not the place to be having this argument but short of picking up the Hobbit and dumping him into the saddle, Thorin was at a loss for what to do.

“I am!” Bilbo stood with hands clenched at his side. He leaned forward, jutting out his chin as he spoke fiercely. “He will not stop. I will not be responsible for the pillaging of Middle Earth!”

From above them there came the sound of a heavy thud, as if a giant had tread upon the floor. Rock dust filtered down on their heads.

“What would you have us do, Bilbo?!” Thorin growled, eyes cast to the ceiling. There came a second thud and a heavy bit of masonry felt upon the stairs behind them. Valar be damned, Thorin grabbed Bilbo and hefted him into the saddle like a sack of rocks. “You cannot stay here! You will eventually give in and then it shall all fall to ruin anyhow!”

Murdêl danced back from the door with a clatter of hooves on stone as more rocks fell from the heights, slamming into the ground around them. “It must be destroyed,” Bilbo yelled from his seat atop the ram.

“Destroyed? How? It was forged in the fire of Mount Doom. No mortal weapon can destroy it!” It was getting infinitely harder to hear each other over the rumbling of the tower and they had long since escalated to shouting.

“Then that is where we shall take it!” Bilbo reached back to anchor Thorin as he pulled himself into the saddle behind him. As soon as he felt Thorin’s weight settle, Murdêl was racing away from the tower.

“Mount Doom?” Thorin shouted in Bilbo’s ear as Murdêl leapt out of the path of a rolling boulder. “Are you mad? You would give it into his hands!”

The ram was forced to leap onto the next boulder and the one following or risk being crushed. Bilbo’s words were punched out with each jump as he hung determinedly to the pommel fighting to keep his seat. “If the fires created it, then they must be able to destroy it!”

“Even were that so, you would be destroyed in the process! You would never survive!”

Bilbo only shook his head stubbornly. His dirty curls whipped at Thorin’s face as Murdêl leapt back down onto solid ground. Behind them the rumbling of the tower stopped and the world grew oppressively still once more.

Thorin cast a look behind them to see the Tower still standing but looking much more ragged in the early light. He drew hard on the reins to bring Murdêl to a sudden halt. The great ram tossed his head and snorted but allowed Thorin to slide off his back. He stepped over to the ram’s shoulder and looked back up at Bilbo.

“Give it to me. I shall take it,” he said softly.

Bilbo shook his head frantically back and forth but Thorin was sure of his choice and refused to be gainsayed.

“Remember what you told me in the Shire, Bilbo. Have faith. I shall see this done.”

Bilbo searched his face for the lie but Thorin stood firm. He could do this. He was the only one that could do this.

Slowly, Bilbo’s arm extended in jerks and starts until he held his closed fist out to Thorin. Gently, Thorin took his hand and coaxed open his fingers. Laying on his trembling palm sat a simple gold ring. Thorin reached out slowly and grasped the ring between thumb and index finger. Bilbo’s fingers flexed once as if he was fighting the need to close his hand again around the precious ring. Thorin stilled for a moment and looked at Bilbo.

Bilbo’s wide eyes seemed to have overtaken his entire expression but he gave the slightest of nods. In a single swift move, Thorin snatched the ring up enclosing it in his palm. An ugly sneer transformed Bilbo’s face for a brief moment and then he was reeling back in the saddle, hands over his face.

Thorin wrapped the ring quickly in one of the clothes he used for soulstones and tucked it away before reaching out to Bilbo. The Hobbit trembled beneath his hands, shuddering and breathing in great lungfuls of air as if he hadn’t breathed deeply in hours or days or years.

“Bilbo?”

“I’m alright. I am. Just.” His voice was lost suddenly in a choked, almost sob. “A moment please.”

Despite the precariousness of their situation, Thorin allowed him just that. He stood quietly, hand on Bilbo’s thigh as the distraught Hobbit fought to gain control of himself. At length, his breathing came easier and he raised his head to look down at Thorin.

“All right.” He ran his hand over his mouth then offered in a wry tone. “I’ve only had it for a decade or two. Picked it up on one of my walking holidays but sometimes I can’t remember ever being without it.” Here he spoke more to himself. “I’m all right now,” he said again as if the more he said it the more it became true.

Thorin did him the courtesy of not questioning his statement but instead remounted behind him and turned Murdêl towards the smoking mountain. It was a short trip from tower to mountain but with each step, Thorin felt his heart strung tighter and tighter in anticipation of an attack that never came. It was as if they were the only beings left in Middle Earth as they travelled unchallenged up the slope of the mountain until they were presented with a door. Deep within, Thorin could see the red glow of the fires of Mount Doom.

Bilbo made to dismount as Thorin did but he stayed him with a quiet word. “Stay. Murdêl will keep you safe and see you home if…”

Bilbo shook his head sharply. “We’ll be here waiting for you to return.”

Thorin drew his blade and strode away refusing to look back. For all that he didn’t need it, he still felt better walking into battle with it in hand. And to battle he was certainly striding.

The first obstacle manifested itself as he passed into the shade of the mountain corridor. Between one step and the next, he was hit with a wall of heat that sucked the breath from his lungs and threatened to wring him dry. He was forced to pause a moment and center his thoughts; there was no difference between this and the Dragon fire. He was Death, and Death would not be dissuaded by even the greatest of fires. The heat seemed to retreat from his awareness and he took a deep breath of cool air before continuing on.

He emerged into the caldera on a thin walkway that spanned the crater. Roiling molten rock licked at the sides of the cavern walls and the pillar supports of the walkway, but all seemed clear. He tentatively took a step out onto the walkway and then another. The next obstacle appeared with his third step, when he was greeted with a rush of superheated air and steam that threatened to peel his skin from his bones. Again he drew the power of his Office and stepped through, untouched, this time without having to pause.

Thorin was struck with the inappropriate urge to issue a bellowed challenge although he knew it to be folly. It was much better to pass unnoted, but the suspense of waiting for a true challenge was scraping his nerves raw.

As if conjured by his very thoughts the world seemed to warp and compress around him. The air screamed as it was sucked into a single pinpoint of light that then exploded out with enough concussive force to send Thorin to his knees.Thorin used his sword to brace himself against the onslaught, head bowed to protect his face from the light and wind.

As suddenly as it had appeared, the wind and sound snuffed out. Blinking Thorin looked up at the still empty walkway but he was certainly no longer alone. A malicious consciousness now hung over the crater turning the air thick and oily. The very fabric of the world seemed to ripple in a manner that reminded Thorin of the warped tapestry in the Weaver’s workshop.

Thorin cautiously rose to his feet, eyes fixed firmly on the stone path before him. He took another step forward then cried out in pain as the weight of the Dark Lord crushed down on him. Images not of his making raced through his mind, death and fire, pain and sorrow, and a world sunk in fire. Thorin forced himself to move, one painful step at a time towards the precipice.

Just when he was sure that he could bear no more, that he must stop or his mind would be torn to shreds, the imagines reversed themselves. He was presented with images of himself throwing open the doors to Mahal’s Halls, of multitudes of Dwarves streaming back into Middle Earth, of kingdoms of gold and silver and above it all sat Thorin on a throne of jade ruling over the greatest of Dwarven kingdoms.

Thorin clenched his jaw against the hollow promise of power. But it was the images of his family restored that caused tears to prick at the corners of his eyes. Fighting the temptation, Thorin took another step forward.

“I shall not be denied,” he swore.

Suddenly his mind was wholly his own again and he found himself stumbling to a stop as a wall of pure power surrounded him. Walls of red tinged gold curved up and around him, isolating him from the world around him. The sound of the bubbling rock and the heated air suddenly disappeared and Thorin found himself listening only to the sound of his own ragged breaths.

Irritated to again be challenged, he raised his sword and brought the blade swinging down. The blade met the shield and ricocheted back, sending a painful vibration through Thorin’s hand and down his arm. He stared dumbly at the barrier caught in the unnatural stillness of his cage.

Oddly, in that moment he felt a strange breeze brush by his cheek, lifting his sweat matted hair. It smelled of a sunlit meadow and brought to mind a small workroom with an ever expanding tapestry of Middle Earth where the threads of all the Peoples wove back and forth. Every thread except his own. From far away he heard his own voice speaking to Bilbo, _..to be where I must, when I must_.

The realization crystallized in Thorin’s mind in a bright shining moment. With unwavering confidence, Thorin took a single step forward followed by another and another and passed right through the barrier as if it had never been there.

Death would be not denied, not even by the Valar. 

He could feel the overwhelming wave of anger building behind him, rolling up to crash down on him and sweep him from the path but Thorin was already drawing forth the ring. With a savage grin, he threw it into the heart of the Mountain and the world exploded around him.


	7. Death Takes a Holiday

Thorin couldn’t say how he made it back to Bilbo and Murdêl but somehow he did so. The trip out of Mordor was accomplished in the blink of an eye and the next he knew, they all three were standing upon a distant carrock watching as Mount Doom exploded in fire and Mordor collapsed around it. Together Bilbo and he stood watching, shoulders leaning into one another until the sun was high in the sky. Finally, exhausted and a little sun drunk, they remounted and headed back to the Shire.

Tharkûn was waiting for them beneath the spreading branches of Bilbo’s oak tree smoking a pipe and sending smoke rings floating off into summer morning. He rose as Thorin and Bilbo approached and with great solemnity, executed a deep bow before Thorin. “Well done, Thorin Deathless.”

Thorin nodded back, unable to find any words to offer in reply. He turned to Bilbo as the Hobbit stepped past them to head down to his home.

“Bilbo?” he asked quietly.

The Hobbit stopped and turned his head to the side, not quite far enough around to allow him to look at Thorin but clearly responding to him. Tired lines were carved into his face and he looked as if he’d aged a decade or two in the last night.

“I’m alright, Thorin.” Bilbo lips twitched as if trying to offer a smile and failing. “Or at least, I feel like I will be.”

Thorin could only nod. There was so much he still wanted to ask, like how Bilbo had come upon the ring; and so much he wanted to say, like how sorry he was that he had almost failed at the task the Wizard had given him. But the words he wanted to offer stuck to his tongue.

Bilbo’s countenance curved into something softer and a bit more true. “You know when tea is served. You’re always welcome, Thorin.” And with that, he turned away and disappeared down the hill.

Thorin turned to look at the Wizard. “Will he truly be alright?” he asked.

Tharkûn smiled around the stem of his pipe. “Hobbits are resilient creatures. He has been changed, yes, and is perhaps a bit bruised but he will find his way.”

Thorin stared hard at the ground as if by willing it so, he might be able to see through grass and walls and track the movements of one lone Hobbit.

“Still, I will not leave him alone tonight. Or any night soon, if that settles your heart, Thorin.”

Thorin nodded his head. It would be good to know that Bilbo had someone near by, even if it was a meddling Wizard. Which reminded him of the Wizard’s role in his own adventures.

“Did you know?” he asked tiredly.

For once, the Wizard didn’t dissemble, only looked off into the morning thoughtfully. 

“I suspected,” he offered quietly. “But I did not know for certain. How could I? I am not Death and while I may guess at your powers, I could never truly know.”

Thorin wanted to argue at that, rail against the hubris of the Wizard to force them all into such desperate circumstances without a clear understanding of how it would all work out. But he no longer had the energy to do so.

The Wizard, however, didn’t seem to need to hear the words to understand them. He bowed his head over his pipe so that his words seemed to float up with the smoke. “I had faith though, and sometimes that is all that we ever have. That, and a small bit of luck.”

“Luck indeed,” Thorin snorted. Faith that Thorin would eventually come to realize the extent of his powers and luck that he would do so before it was too late. Such was the way of the world, he supposed.

“And now what shall you do, Thorin Deathless?”

Thorin looked back over at the Wizard. Crowned in white, he was once again the ageless Maia and Thorin had no doubt that soon enough he would be striding across the world, intent on more mischief. And Thorin found that for the first time in a long while, he wanted to see where the world went, what new challenges it’s people would face, and what new joys.

“Death’s duties are neverending,” he offered with a smile.

“Indeed. Although perhaps they may be a little less solitary?”

Thorin could only shake his head at the Wizard’s presumption. “Perhaps,” he conceded.

The Wizard let out a self satisfied huff and pulled his pipe from his mouth. “Then I expect that I will be seeing you again before too long.” He carefully up-ended the pipe and snuffed out the embers beneath his boot.

“I don’t doubt it,” Thorin agreed. “Although, perhaps next time with a bit less theatrics.”

“Perhaps,” Tharkûn echoed. Without further goodbye, the Wizard ambled off down the hill. Faintly, Thorin heard the sound of the round green door closing and the querulous voice of a Hobbit directing the Wizard to leave his boots by the door.

Thorin turned back to Murdêl and stood for a moment looking out into the quiet morning, absently rubbing the ram’s soft ear between two rough fingertips. Around him the Shire was waking up and Hobbits were going about their business as if the events of the night before had only been a fleeting night terror. And maybe that was all they had ever truly been.

A glint of metal caught his eye and Thorin bent down to find Murdêl’s abandoned saddle bags tucked beneath the tree. One had been stamped flat and Thorin regretfully pulled the remains of Bilbo’s toy from its depth. The other bag had been shielded from harm by one of the oak roots though and its contents remained unscathed.

With Murdêl following close behind, Thorin made his way down to Bilbo’s door. He stacked the forgotten purchases on a bench beneath the window. At the very top, he laid the little paper box with its biscuits only slightly worse for the rough night. He contemplated knocking but in the end just turned away.

“Let’s go home, Murdêl,” he said tiredly. “I think Middle Earth has earned a holiday from Death today.”

And so they did.

\---

Thorin’s life settled back into the well remembered routine from before the Grey Wizard had introduced him to Master Baggins. His time was once again his own and he used it to catch up on all the items that he had previously put off. He replaced all the contraptions he’d used to deal with the overflow of soulstones. He visited his sister and let her fuss at him for challenging one of the Maia. He even thought about sending the raven messenger for his nephews instead of her just to see her flush with annoyed pride.

Eventually as the leaves began to fall and the days turn colder, he found himself once more standing before a round green door set into a hill. He knocked sharply and was greeted by a familiar voice.

“Come in! It’s unlocked.”

Fighting not to roll his eyes, Thorin pushed open the door. It seemed that in the end, Master Baggins was much the same as ever. He left his boots tucked by the door and cloak hung on a peg and saw himself into the kitchen where Bilbo was busy assembling a meal, back to the doorway.

Thorin snuck quietly up and placed his offering in the middle of the table. Then he softly cleared his throat. “Master Baggins.”

Bilbo yelped in an entirely undignified manner and spun around to see him. “Thorin! What are you doing here?”

Thorin allowed a small smile to curve his lips. “I believe I was invited to tea? And I needed to deliver my gift.”

Bilbo blinked at him dumbly for a moment before his eyes traveled down to the table. In the center stood a small battle ram and sitting astride it, picked out in perfect detail was a Hobbit, shoulders definitely squared, and a Dwarf with sword in hand.

Bilbo reached out with one gentle finger and nudged the toy. He watched in pleasure as it sprang to life and galloped across the table top with fully articulated limbs.

“Do you think your nephew will like it?” Thorin asked softly.

Bilbo snorted. “Perhaps something less… militant, next time,” he requested with a small smile. “But, I love it.”

A small knot in Thorin’s chest loosened at the easy welcome. Part of him had worried that he would never be welcome back in this small, round kitchen. He should have known better than to doubt.

Bilbo’s raised eyebrow clearly communicated that he knew exactly what sort of an idiot Thorin had been. The Hobbit shook his head and gestured towards a chair.

“Sit,” Bilbo ordered. “I think I have a few tarts left over that will go lovely with our tea.”

And so Death sat and took tea with a Hobbit.

**Author's Note:**

> The art for this story was created by the amazing [Teaxdragon](http://teaxdragon.tumblr.com/) and equally outstanding [kironomi](http://bracari-iris.tumblr.com/). Please share with them how much you enjoyed their wonderful art!
> 
> A huge thank you to the wonderful betas for this story **msilverstar** and **plantyourtreesburntheheart**.
> 
> Endless love to **bubbysbub** for the last minute sanity save, tireless cheerleading, comma wrangling, and all around fabulousness.
> 
> This work owes a large debt of gratitude to Piers Anthony’s _Incarnations of Immortality_ series and in particular  On a Pale Horse. The functionality of the Office of Death, accouterments of Death, and general theme are all borrowed from his work with changes made to incorporate them into the structure of Middle Earth. An equal debt is owed to J. R. R. Tolkien and The Hobbit for the source material.


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